Snowfall

Walter and I were stranded at the airport for nearly six hours, snowed in and forced to make small talk while waiting for clearance to leave for our vacation to Bora Bora. My luggage had already been stowed, elsewise I'd have simply taken my rabbit muff and snuggled against the pillow that is my husband and had a bit of a catnap. But no. I had to make do with an extra pair of hose that I'd slipped into my coat pocket, which I stuffed with copious amounts of Kleenex to soften the resting of my head on Walter's shoulder. We talked of the sun and surf that would be awaiting us soon, and I dreamed of a certain summer's day of my youth, an afternoon of chasing the waves at the Atlantic shores of Martha's Vinyard with my childhood friend Stephen. How I miss dear Stephen. I wonder sometimes if he thinks of me, imagines even in his wildest dreams that lovely, pert Vivian LaFontane has moved from tossing pebbles to hurling knives. I picture him in his tiny cabin in Fairbanks, Alaska, typing furitively at his typewriter, churning out those gripping, sultry poems for which he has made such a name for himself.

The snow was so pleasant, soft and wispy and even though I had to endure Walter telling me for the seventh time about the time he and his brother built a snowman the size of farm tractor, I didn't mind. I was warm in the crook of his arm, the stash of Wisconsin cheeses that I discovered in my handbag were delightfully delicious and I knew that Bora Bora wasn't going anywhere anytime soon.

I Need a Vacation in the Worst Way!

I'm just so tired these days. I don't know if it's the weather or the constant demands upon my skills and time. I'm certainly not a young flower anymore, that much is true. There are days that I operate in the mindset of youth, where I walk down the street envisioning myself as one would have seen me ten, fifteen years ago. Free of worry lines, skin taught and curves holding up like girders on the Chrysler tower. And then I walk past the picture window of any number of shops, glancing over to take in the sumptuous display of jewelry or shoes that the store owner has taken upon himself to advertise. And then I am reminded that I am not the young sparrow I once was, but a mature woman, one who—no matter the speed with which I can traverse the back alleys—cannot outrun the evils of time.

Walter and I will be leaving for Bora Bora at the end of the month and I only wish I could show the slightest sliver of excitement. But I can't. I must be as pleasurable to be around as a death row stool pigeon licking up the remnants of his last meal. I don't know. Maybe it's time for something different. There is a search party leaving for Tibet in six weeks, in search of a vanished agent by name of Red Robin. It's not a life that needs to be saved, it's a tiny square of microfilm, securely embedded in a part of the body that will, if not salvaged posthaste, will soon appear in the light of day should decomposition be occurring right now.

What's in borsht? Beet's me!

I had the opportunity to travel to Leningrad this month, but I declined. I don't typically get the privilege of doing so, therefore I make sure I have sufficient grounds when asking for a postponement of duties. The truth is, Walter is simply not up to the travel. We've been to the land of nesting dolls and vodka before and we've been real sports in the Rusky region. But Walter is mired in the doldrums. I swear, my cherry blossoms, I thought it was we, the fairer sex, that were the harbigers of the moody blues. But give me a maiden in her menses any day over a man in the muck. First Miles, then Walter. I think Walter is coming off the end of his midlife crisis and since he wasn't able to buy a sportscar or take up with dainty Scandinavian tennis coach, I fear that he's realizing his moment to indulge within the excuse of a cliche is passing him by. I'm considering sending a masseuse up to his room, if only to give him some guilt to distract him from his own self-imposed misery. Do I sound cold, unfeeling and...oh dear, I hate to use the caustic and overused term...bitchy? Perhaps. But when you've spent evenings dodging shards of Waterford crytal, snipers hiding in the stormdrains along your footpath (shooting up, no less--try being surprised by an updraft of hot lead, bunnies) and stitching your own six inch knife wound, courtesy of a stupid and clumsy (and, subsequently expired) rookie agent of the Persian guard, then you try and drum up sympathy for a man who sits like a loaf of rising bread dough in the library, lamenting over the loss of a few more strands of hair. Oh well, such is the lot in the Delacourt palace.

Speaking of Miles, he is for the better, thank the gods of gaydom. Upon the completion of the Dim Sum mission, we'd pulled into a shipping warehouse at the docks, to await our contact and transport down the coast. Who should slide open the doors with such brutish grace but Agent 76, aka, "The Silver Wolf." A man's man, if I ever saw one and it didn't take long for me to figure out which of us he'd be helping into his boat first. "A stunning accent of ocelot, Madame Delacourt," he noted. "I have a smoking jacket made from the same cat." Purrr.... And Miles sprung into action. I captained the boat all the way to Norfolk, while the men...took a catnap in the cabin.

I do so love the sailing life, don't you?