away, to be wondering if Cal might be The One for me.
I can so totally tell she’s hoping that Cal and I will fall in love and get married and buy a house next to the one you so know she and Mark are going to buy someday in Westchester (aka the Hellmouth) and send our kids to the same school and get together for barbecues on Saturday nights and sit around drinking Amstel Lights while spraying our progeny with Off to keep them from getting West Nile.
Yeah. Don’t think that’s going to be happening, Holl. The best man doesn’t BELIEVE in love. But don’t worry, I’m sure his toast will be VERY heartfelt….
Oh, wait, no, it won’t. Because he doesn’t HAVE a heart.
So now I’m wet and cold and sitting in my room with a too-small towel around my head, trying to scrape the mud off my Steve Madden, wondering what’s wrong with me. I should be having fun. This is my first trip abroad, after all. And I haven’t had a proper vacation in months, possibly years. I just spend all my time cooped up in my tiny studio apartment drawing stupid cats.
And I know that despite what the Customs guy said, Le Marche is supposed to be this magical place, even though since we’ve gotten here it’s been pouring rain and the drops make this weird hollow sound as they hit the red terra-cotta roof tiles above my window and I swear to God if Cal Langdon and I end up cooped up in this house together for a week because of rain, only one of us is going to emerge alive, and it will be me because I know his weakness now.
But oh my God! What’s with the mud and the everything being closed on Sunday and the power going out when you turn on the oven and the whole not-speaking-English thing? Not to mention, what is up with all the fish? I mean, I like fish, I guess, sort of, in small doses, and of course I am concerned about my Omega 3 fatty acid intake. Who isn’t?
But I can certainly rectify that by having H & H throw a little nova on my bagel three times a week. I do not need to eat fish morning, noon, and night, like these Italians apparently do.
Wait. Could this explain why they’re all so fit?
Oh, God, what is wrong with me? I am in an exotic foreign country, staying in a lovely house (except for the no-TV thing. And the Virgin Mary paintings everywhere—Holly’s uncle seems to collect them, the ones whose eyes watch you wherever you go, so creepily that I had to take the one in my room down and put it in the wardrobe; oh, and the fact that there are no bathtubs, only showers, in any of the bathrooms. Oh, and my best friend’s husband’s best man keeps using words likevicissitudes and apparently wants to find some time to be alone with me so we can “talk.” But other than that, the place is lovely) with my best friend, who is getting married, MARRIED, to the man she has loved forever. I should be happy for her.
It’s just that really, with this storm overhead, pouring down buckets, we are stuck in this house together, with nothing but the Virgin Mary statues and the fish Frau Schumacher left us, and all I can think about is how crappy the weather is and how mean Mark’s best man is and how much work I am going to have when I get back and how probably Julio is going to be resentful of The Dude’s biting him and consequently forget to tape all my shows and then I won’t know what’s happening on any of them and I’ll have to ask Dolly Vargas who will tell me all pityingly that a single woman who cares as much about television as I do has no life and why don’t I let her introduce me to someone.
Holly is calling me. She says dinner is ready.
I swear to God, if any of them finds the playing cards some previously rain-swamped guests left behind and suggests we play bridge or something equally chummy, I am definitely going out to the pool, rain or no rain, and drowning myself.
___________________________________________
e-mails
To: Holly Caputo <[email protected]>
Fr: Jane Harris <[email protected]>
Re: Where is he?
Holly, is Mark with you?
J
___________________________________________
To: Jane Harris <[email protected]>
Fr: Holly Caputo <[email protected]>
Re: Where is he?
Oh my God, Jane. Where are you? Why are you e-ing me? I’m still awake. Why don’t you come talk to me in person? I’m in our room. It’s OK, Mark’s still downstairs.
Holly
___________________________________________
To: Holly Caputo <[email protected]>
Fr: Jane Harris <[email protected]>
Re: Where is he?
Is Cal with him? Mark, I mean?
J
___________________________________________
To: Jane Harris <[email protected]>
Fr: Holly Caputo <[email protected]>
Re: Where is he?
How should I know? I told you, I’m in my room. I came up to bed because I’m exhausted. What is WRONG with you? Where ARE you? Why are you acting so weird all of a sudden?
Holly
___________________________________________
To: Holly Caputo <[email protected]>
Fr: Jane Harris <[email protected]>
Re: Where is he?
Nothing’s wrong. I’m on my way to bed too. I’m in a downstairs closet. I just don’t want to run into Cal. Go back to sleep. Sorry if I woke you up.
J
___________________________________________
To: Jane Harris <[email protected]>
Fr: Holly Caputo <[email protected]>
Re: Where is he?
Right. Like I’ll be able to go back to sleep NOW. Janie, WHY are you in a downstairs closet? And WHY don’t you want to run into Cal? Tell me now, or I’m coming down there and ripping that closet door open.
Holly
___________________________________________
