In Which I Become Domestic

I love my new apartment so much it borders on obsession. I would post photos, you know, but then that might be internet TMI. Also, we're still waiting on some furniture and I want to have the whole kit and kaboodle set up before I go all out posting pictures and expecting compliments.

That said, being in the apartment has sent my emotions on a whirlwind. Last night, at Bed, Bath and Beyond (also known as the flaming Gates of Hell to some), I actually bought a pyrex pie dish.

Just who do I think I am?

I don't know how to cook. Hell, I really don't know how to bake. But being in this apartment makes me want to cook, clean, organize, decorate, and just exist in the apartment. Graham and I made our first dinner two nights ago. Check out the recipe here. It was easy as hell, and delicious. Also: it made enough to feed us for lunch for two days. How to save money 101: cook dinner at home.

Dueling Sarah Michelles: Forcibly Domestic / Naturally Domestic

I think up until recently I had always shied away from housework and cooking because I'm pretty lazy, and I'm a feminist. There's just something about being in the kitchen, with my hair all in my face, covered in flour that just screams June Cleaver to me (in a bad, non-sexy, sad, pathetic way). But, ah, with age and maturity comes the realization that cleaning your apartment and cooking your own food just means that you're an adult. It doesn't really have anything to do with feminism. And yes, you want to divide these chores with your partner (if you have one). Lucky for me, my boo unloaded the dishwasher last night.

Basically, I just want my life to be filled with wonderful food, and I want an apartment with fresh flowers. I'm almost there guys. I can almost taste it. (Now if only I could find a better job).

Let's ask Giada. Can domesticity be sexy?

Whoa. Whoa there.

I'm not quite ready for that.

The Brown Lady of Raynham Hall

When I was a wee one, I loved Ghost Stories (with a capital G, and S). I had this crazy book called the Usborne book of GHOSTS, and I read it so often that it literally disintegrated in my hands. I went on a mad search for the thing several summers ago when I was home, but alas, it appears to have vanished.

The first story in this collection was one about "The Brown Lady of Raynham Hall." The story also included an accompanying photograph, reproduced below.



Now, as I'm writing this, I realize this photograph is most likely a hoax, and that the shadowy figure looks like a statue of the Virgin Mary. If you look closely, you can see the triangle feet, where her robes fall around her, and it appears as if her hands are in the praying position. In actuality, the perpetrator of this hoax probably figured out a way to superimpose a photograph of a statue over the stairs.

But when I was ten, man, I believed this. I believed it so hard. And the accompanying story makes you WANT to believe it. That's the fantastic thing about really great ghost stories. You want these spirits to exist, because their stories are so dramatic.



The deal with the Brown Lady was that she was supposedly Dorothy Walpole (1686-1726), the sister of England's first Prime Minister. She wanted to marry the second Viscount Townshend, but her father wouldn't allow it. Finally, after the death of Townshend's first wife they were finally married. Of course by this time Dorothy had started a love affair with this guy named Lord Wharton. When Townshend learned of the affair, he supposedly bricked Dorothy up in Raynham Hall, where she either

a) died of a broken heart
b) died of a push from Townshend down the stairs
c) died of boredom

And it it her ghost that haunts the halls. An extension of the same story is that guests at Raynham Hall have reported to seeing her walk towards them, a shadowy female figure who comes more and more into focus the closer she gets, and that right as she's face to face, you realize she has. no. eyes. Just sockets! And then, hoping you're sufficiently creeped out, she vanishes.




There is yet another caveat to the story, that, in hopes of getting rid of the ghost, the owners of Raynham Hall took to exploring the house to find the remains of one such woman. The story goes that the skeleton of a young woman was found, and promptly buried at a nearby nunnery. The Brown Lady hasn't been seen since.

Friendship is Miles Away

I hate that I'm writing this review the week after "Christmas is Miles Away," by English playwright Chloe Moss, has closed here in New York. Let's just say I was lucky to see it. Produced and Directed by my friend Geordie Broadwater, the play chronicles the breakdown of a long-standing friendship between two Manchester boys as they grow into men.

Unsurprisingly, the two are very different, and their differences only blanch and tighten with age. Christie's father dies, he falls in with a girl named Julie, which proves to be his first major love affair. Luke goes off to be a soldier while Christie stays at home to paint at the local art college. The New York Times review really says it all . . . Ms. Moss' dialogue is the shining star of this play, totally natural, and also wonderfully exotic with the nooks and crannies of the Manchester gab. While all three actors are talented, Roger Lirtsman, who plays Luke, is absolutely stunning. His total and complete physical commitment to the character outshines the other two actors, who still seem a bit young and inexperienced in comparison. Lirtsman's tics (Luke has an uncomfortable large and frequent smile) indicate there's more to him than meets the eye. His discomfort (again, that incredible smile) during an intervention Julie organizes is so palpable, I cried. I literally cried.

I had never heard of Chloe Moss, but you can bet your bottom dollar I'll be keeping my eye out to see more from her, and to purchase a collection of her plays. (Is there one? There should be). All I know, is that after I left the theater, I was still crying, thinking of my childhood friends (and even some current ones) and wondering if I'd done them wrong. It's so easy to let friendships slip through one's fingers as you grow and change. You find yourself seeking out that person when you were thirteen . . . but of course they've changed, and you have too.

What defines a friendship? Does it end when you no longer have anything in common? What about friendships that never had anything in common? I'm the first to admit that I'm too judgmental. If a friend mentions they voted for Bush or McCain, I strike them off my list. I say to myself, "We have nothing in common." Is that really true? Should I value my friends for the way they see the world differently than I do?

Who have I lost through my own immaturity, my quickness to judge, my mindless self-indulgence?

Can we, do we want to reconcile?