jaysaint Getting it all down on paper…

It’s been a trying time lately for a few peoiple close to us. It feels a little bit weird to me to write about these things, because I’m usually very forthcoming in my journal. But I’ll protect other people’s privacy better than I’ll protect my own.

In the past eight days we’ve seen someone through an abortion and someone else through an alcoholic relapse. Ultimately, all parties are going to be okay. (At least I hope so — it can be a little harder to say with a drinker).

But it’s a good reminder of how tissue-thin a happy life can be. And even if I’m happy and healthy, if someone close to me is not then I really can’t be either.

I hate anything that reminds me that there are some things I can’t fix through force of will. If there is any one element common to any and all successes I’ve ever had, it’s that I’m perfectly prepared to win by sheer force, and my life has taught me that that will almost always do the trick. But I can’t follow a person around all day every day knocking drinks out of his or her hand, even though I toy with the idea of how it might be done.

But, again, I believe both these stories are ultimately going to come out right.

And next weekend I get to go to New Orleans for a wedding. And that will be just pure joy. I can’t wait.

I’ve been flying a lot lately. I don’t love it, but I’m used to it and will do it with minimal complaining.

It’s not news to anyone that airlines have been contracting their schedules, which means every leg of every flight is overflowing. Usually.

Today I flew in my customary window seat. A woman came and took the middle seat. And I rejoiced when I saw that the person with the aisle seat was a no show.

Guess what the middle seat woman did.

Nothing.

Nothing.

She stayed in the middle seat.

I think that is BIZARRE behavior. Who does that? Who would ever do that?

Is she a robot? A freak? A demon?

Damon and I just walked down to Baskin Robbins to treat ourselves to a heat-defying treat.

I see a poster featuring special summer sundaes and say:
I’ll have the peanut butter pie sundae

Guy behind the counter: What kind of ice cream do you want?

Me: Um, doesn’t it come with peanut butter ice cream?

G: It comes with any kind you want.

M: Do you have peanut butter ice cream?

G: No

M: What else comes on that sundae?

G: Whatever topping you want, plus whipped cream, walnuts and a cherry.

M: Walnuts?

G: Yeah

M: So, I can order my peanut butter pie sundae with strawberry ice cream and hot fudge?

G: Yeah

M: And walnuts, whipped cream and a cherry. Anything else?

G: No, that’s it.

M: Okay, that’s what I’ll have then.

I got back to New York at 6am this morning, after having spent the weekend with a huge group of passionate, intelligent, funny, radical, provocative women bloggers. What a treat. Usually when I’m told that I “get to” attend a conference I sigh a little sigh of the inevitable. I do love room service. But generally I reach critical mass of stranger contact far faster than the day’s events end. (Which is not to say I didn’t skip one part of one session to hide in the back of the parking lot and suck up a few chapters of a pure-pulp novel I’d taken along.)

I got to have a chat with blog rock star Dooce. You may not know who she is, but in San Jose this weekend she was as close as it got to Keith Richards. She’s delightful, and seems sincerely a little confounded by the adoration she inspires. If you haven’t read her, do yourself the favor.

I also got to reminisce with Arianna Huffington about the fact that she was a guest on the very last show I produced on CNN. She did indeed remember, because it was the show where Ben Stein flipped her off, live, and then stormed off. Oh, and Sarah Ferguson (the Dutchess of York) was there as well. And I had a guest host who was holding on by a thread already. Poor Arianna took it like a champ, and last night she held my hand, looked deeply into my eyes and purred, “That wasn’t your fault.” Truthfully, I never thought it was. I will stand by my assessment that it was a 100% unpredictable event perpetrated by BEN STEIN of all people. But that doesn’t change the fact that there was no surface in the control room under which I did not wish to crawl. Arianna is still a very active captain of The Huffington Post and she told us that they’re going to add a lot of lifestyle blogs to round out the political stuff come this fall.

If I had all day I couldn’t list all the other cool women I met. There was the tattoo’d and punky woman who is a nurse for the criminally insane in an Atlanta prison, the 16-year-old girls who do a science podcast, the woman who makes her living running 17 individual blogs, the woman who runs Mighty Good… And that’s just off the top of my jet-lagged head.

I left with a new commitment to acquaint myself with the virtual versions of these women, and to join the conversation rather than to just lurk. I’m going to start just as soon as I sleep for about 20 hours.

And ps — To the toddler who kicked my seat from San Jose to Philadelphia: I hate hate hate you!

I know that I’m in a bit of a topical rut this week, but bear with me and soon I’ll be back to talking about work and chocolate and vacations.

Today I told my Dad the adoption plan.

He hasn’t heard word one about any hopes or plans for a baby until now. This journal must make it seem like this isn’t so, but we’ve been terribly private about the whole thing. Writing about it here helps me keep the desire to discuss in check.

It wasn’t that I thought my Dad would be negative. But I did wonder if he would… pause. He’s terribly conservative, an original old-fashioned guy. And he has been known to get angry at entire countries. I wasn’t sure where China stood.

But when I told him he was just purely excited. He’s tickled to be a grandpa, tickled that it will be a girl, tickled that it will be a Chinese girl. And he earned a spot in heaven by never asking, or even hinting at, whether or not we had first tried to conceive. He took the position that anyone with any sense would love to adopt a baby from China.

Three cheers for my resplendent Dad, who will get to pick any grandfatherly name his heart desires. I like Poppy, but wouldn’t be surprised if he opts for Whiskey Jim.