Private: Gratitude

Stephany Aulenback is my personal savior, and Pasha Malla is seated at her right hand, clad in a velvet robe. I have only begun to savor their posts and will need to go back and read them at length.

If I weren’t so damned frazzled, I’d be too intimidated to post anything in the wake of Ms. Aulenback’s bang-up week of guest-hosting.

Meanwhile, no sane person would plan to host a gathering at her apartment on the heels of a weeklong trip, right? So do feel free to consider my plans to do just that as further proof of my insanity.

Tonight five to fifteen smart, formidable, and beautiful women will converge on my backyard to discuss the Granta: Best of the Young British Novelists issue.

In preparation, I spent yesterday pulling weeds and cleaning my apartment. My home was frightening in its post-blackout state; the refrigerator especially had gone wild. Apologies to the friend who stayed at my place the first weekend I was away. She was counting on a garden respite from the city. Little did she know that the garden had situated itself in the middle of the produce drawer.

The trip was fine. We spent most of the time in the car, driving past strip malls. Family obligations took up most of our days.

We did manage to see friends who live in Delray Beach, where we stayed for part of the time, and spent time with old friends who were visiting from St. Petersburg and Japan, but neglected all of our friends and acquaintances in Miami. In fact, I cancelled plans with several good people and need to fling myself at their feet and beg forgiveness. This will be difficult to achieve via email.

Speaking of email, I haven’t checked mine or read anyone’s weblog during the time I’ve been away, so for the love of G-d please don’t take my silence as a sign of anything.

I’ll be catching up this week, and posting will probably be slow.