Sunday Night Journal

This weekend was seriously cold with a biting wind that knocked against you like a fat lady on the subway. Really all we could do was amuse ourselves inside.

We cleaned a bit. Steve remembered to put the kids’ coats in the washing machine. The coats had become encrusted with car dirt, since my kids cannot approach a dirty car without rubbing their bodies against it. It’s like dirty winter cars possess some mysterious magnetic strength which sucks them in.

I also did the kitchen floor. We used to keep the floor a lot cleaner in New York; the cockroaches kept us honest.

We watched five consecutive episodes of Entourage on HBO on Demand. Entourage is a series which follows four old friends who have come to Hollywood from Bayside, Queens. There’s the up and coming A-list heart throb, the best friend-manager, the stoner buddy who knows how to get things, and the big brother whose career is in the dumps. When they aren’t strutting together into their agent’s office, they’re smoking weed in their Hummer or drinking with Mandy Moore. If the big star wasn’t pulling in the bucks by playing Aquaman, they would be at a Mets game at Shea and still having an excellent time.

In one scene, a geeky, intense, but powerful blogger (ingeniously cast with the same guy who plays Dwight from the Office) threatens to give the big star a bad review, so the buddies send over the “Pussy Patrol” to change his mind.

We’re loving the show. (And I’m thrilled to see that Maureen Ryan liked it, too.) Which is surprising because Steve hates actors ever since he had the roommate who directed a film in their cramped apartment in Harlem. After watching all those episodes on Friday night, we weren’t two middle aged suburbanites too old for vices and stuck in the house because of the kids and the frigid cold, but we were playyahs making deals and being beautiful.

We read. I sucked down The Secret Life of Bees, which I have to admit that I bought because I mixed it up with Bee Season. The Secret Life of Bees is the story of a 14 year old girl who finds herself at the home of the Calendar sisters, three black women who are beekeepers who worship a statue of Mary. Lily Owens has to learn to deal with the death of her mother and to love herself. I did like it when I read it. I am fond of the whole Southern novel thing where everything is lazy and slow and the heat is so prevalent that it is almost its own person.

After I was done and had a chance to think about it, I wasn’t so thrilled. It was a patchwork of other stories and not really anything new. A bit To Kill a Mockingbird with a dash of The Color Purple. The Calendar sisters themselves are strong, smart, independent, earthy, spiritual and just was too Oprah book club to be real. It was a fun afternoon read, but it wasn’t a major book.

We went to church. It was AIDs awareness day. The missal also talked about the horror of human trafficking and how much was raised for the Philippines last week. I thought about the Crunchy Con discussion from last week.

We ate. Had a lunch at my brother’s and a dinner at my parents.

So, it was a good time even though it was quiet. This week I will definitely go to town on this Newsweek article about Europe and its work-family thing. Go to town. It’s going to be ugly and violent. Newsweek, be very afraid.