This was a two-parted day. I play both rolls well. One is a gracious and excited host with mild cold and one is totally dizzy, sick dude who staggers like he is drunk.
Sarah, my pal from Toronto, dropped in to stay the night and visit before heading off to Montreal to write a script. (How I have longed to do that exact thing!) It was so great to see her. I had not seen her since we canvassed for Obama at the beginning of November. We got to play house like to two young lovers. I cooked her breakfast and we walked across the park talking about life and love and art like we were in a 60's film. The Met was closed so we ducked into the cafe at the Neue Gallerie for kaffee and chocolat chaud. Tres romantique - if she were a man! What fun it was to see her again.
After Sarah dashed off to the North, I fell into total and complete sick mode. I knew I had to deal and in having to deal I had to deal with the fact that I have shitey health insurance and no primary doc here in New York. A sane person asks for recommendations. I showed a glimmer of this, but no one could take me TO. DAY. I went to the Chelsea Clinic and sat and sat and sat.
The walls of the waiting room were a Calomine color and there were generic Monet prints hanging on these skin-toned walls. It was truly awful. It reminded me of the room I was sitting in right before I heard my father was dead. (Yellow walls, Van Gogh reprints). I hated it.
The doc and nurse were both really nice. They determined I had a sinus infection and I got antibiotics. I staggered home on the train with equilibrium a mess and tried to hunker down for the night.
Going to be a rocky one.
So by day a young romantic gallivanting with my Canadian love through the park and by night a broken down middle-aged failure scraping to get pills.
Life.
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