You who live on the East Coast know how much I love and miss you, and except for the registered buddies, that is to say those who sign in with regular inquiries and assurances that it matters to you even peripherally that I am still alive, something it is not always easy to see even when present in Beverly Hills, my computer vanished. Talk about isolation and fear. Not hard enough getting through what's happening in the rest of the world, now oddly including San Bernardino, I lost what turned out to be my other best friend beside my dog.
The good thing was I had walked home from Apple that afternoon, so knew I could not have left it in the cab or the Uber, the latest entrance into which I had espoused to try and keep myself late-middle-aged. The borderline tragedy(for Beverly Hills) was that I was missing Ellen's evening for Share, an organization that I am old enough to remember from when Jamie's mother didn't need any work, on her face, anyway. I had the wonderful dress, at least, though sorrow and borderline panic at not having had the time to have my hair done, so having to wear a hat that was sort-of coordinated, lacked the confidence or posture to stay long enough to face the jeweled ladies, especially since the event was walking distance from my home, although like it we were both on the wrong side of the tracks that aren't there anymore. Ellen was the loveliest lady there of course but had the selflessness not to flaunt, her husband the most gallant, telling me I look young, the most elevating word you can say to any woman in the burg, which I guess it still is.
Grieving, having eaten in passing only one of the excellent and probably pricey hors-doeuvres, I returned home long before the real festivities I assume began, so will never know if I would have won the raffle. Oh, the things that give you anxiety in Southern Cal. But depression, fear and aging rise up heavy and tall when you've moved someplace you never belonged except when it's turned out to be not that wonderful everyplace else but Amsterdam and the weather there sucks as does the language. So to get home safely and not suicidal is a plus.
Somehow I managed to get to sleep without overdosing, and woke this morning only vaguely depressed, not quite sure what all had I missed, but sure it had been some excellent jewelry besides Ellen's. Then I went to the bank to stop all my new checks, arrived in yesterday's mail, but as I didn't have my bank card with me, the man in charge, even though I have made myself extremely present and obnoxious for the past few days as I have seemingly syncopatedly managed to misplace and mismanage everything
except the dog I wasn't sure if I ought to get, wouldn't give me the new checks without my ID which was still at home where I had just been getting the rest of the shit. So rather than miss my appointment at the Apple store to get my new computer on which I would have to reinstall every bit of information accrued over the past many I couldn't believe how many years I'd filled in, and what books I'd written that nobody even wanted besides the ones that they had bothered to look at, when there were still publishers that cared about words and aspiration, I decided I'd return later after I got my new-- sigh-- computer. So I taxied (no Ubers) back to the Apple store in Westwood, where are working a couple of friends I've made who teach, though I don't really seem to learn anything. And there I proceeded to take instruction on the new Apple, preferred computer of choice being the one most like the one I'd lost, even though it was no cuter than the other and less expensive. My instructor, an amiable young fellow sent for the manager to okay me for the purchase. He came and okayed me, and on hearing my name said: "Oh, you're Gwen Davis. We have your computer."
Now you need to understand that we'd been telling people my name as though it should have been famous for other than stupidity since the afternoon of the afternoon before, and had no reaction. So it isn't just me, God, if You're there. It's the world.
But it's nice to have you back, in case you're in there, whoever you are. And the moral of the story? I'm not sure. Send in your suggestions. Maybe in a world where Bin Laden is dead and it still doesn't make that much difference, things are still confusing and crappy, you better call Ellen and ask her what exactly to wear.