I've been laid up a little. Brought an infection home from the hospital with me that had me feverish and slightly insane and now it has cleared and I feel so much better. Feel that I've neglected blog but have nothing to blog about. Devin borrowed my camera yesterday to take some photos and I asked if I can use one. I chose this:

I believe this leaf was on our porch. When it dried and shriveled it left its image behind. I've been reading poems, because my attention span is so short, but the leaf reminded me of a Neruda poem called "Here I Love You."

Here is part of the poem - the last part:

HERE I LOVE YOU
Pablo Neruda

Here I love you and the horizon hides you in vain.
I love you still among these cold things.
Sometimes my kisses go on those heavy vessels
that cross the sea towards no arrival.
I see myself forgotton like those old anchors.
The piers sadden when the afternoon moors there.
My life grows tired, hungry to no purpose.
I love what I do not have. You are so far.
My loathing wrestles with the slow twilights.
But night comes and starts to sing to me.
The moon turns its clockwork dream.
The biggest stars look at me with your eyes.
And as I love you, the pines in the wind
want to sing your name with their leaves of wire.

Due to my schedule, I've had to broadcast reruns of IN HOUSE the past two Saturdays, but tomorrow, tune in for an all-new IN HOUSE interview with my guest, the brilliant and wildly eccentric dancer/choreographer Moses Pendleton, who directs the word-famous dance company, MOMIX

I got to sit in on a few rehearsals of Botanica, Momix's exciting new show and I used the music from the show throughout the interview, making it, I think, one of the most enjoyable shows I've done. Well, Moses made it enjoyable too, of course. If you're into gardening, New England, the environment, dance, Van Gogh, sex, love, skiing, John Keats, bees, the psychological effects of color on mood, music or the creative process - if one or all of these things appeals to you - you'll love tomorrow's show.

And, on another, equally exciting note, I'm going home today. I don't know if it's a HIPA violation to name your physician, but I'll risk it in order to thank my surgeon Dr. Jamal Rahaman and his wonderful team of residents here at Mt. Sinai hospital. I'm told the surgeons don't always have great bedside manner, but that's not the case with Dr. Rahaman, who is not just a great doctor, but also a great man.

Also, at the risk of forgetting some names (I'm sure I will) I'd like to thank the nursing and support staff on my floor who include Michael Quizon, Mary "Jennie" Del Prabo, Cheryl Parks, Debbie Johnson, Lucy Jumelez, Antoinette De Los Reyes ...oh, I know I'm forgetting names. Some of the most helpful people helped me when I was least lucid, but if you're a nurse, I thank you, on behalf of all patients everywhere, for the work you do. Listening to the way some patients here talk to hospital staff makes me think that the word "patient" when describing somebody under nursing care, is an almost laughable misnomer. The nurses I've met this week have taught me much about patience, compassion, tolerance and grace under pressure.

Hi all, I'm still in the hospital, but back to the blogging board. Thanks to all of my virtual best friends who sent the encouraging emails and comments. I can't believe how fondly I've come to think of you all, though most of you I've never met. Thanks for the very kind thoughts and prayers.

Speaking of kindness, I have to say that nurses are a rare and beautiful breed. I devoted a whole chapter in my book, An Innocent, A Broad to singing their praises, but feel that praise is not enough for these overworked, underpaid (no matter how much they're getting paid, it's not enough in my mind) men and women. I was in the recovery room for several hours, and was quite awake and alert, and I had the privilege of witnessing the patience, kindness and empathy of two nurses/superheroes named Brenda and Nicole. Now I wish I could remember their last names but I was not at my best. Anyway, they each had several post-op patients to attend to. Their patients were suffering. Some cried, cursed, demanded more medication, sometimes insisted they see a doctor NOW, and Brenda and Nicole never lost their patience. They spoke to their patients kindly, acknowledged their pain, and worked hard to stop it. At one point, Brenda was simultaneously writing something on my chart, tapping the toes of the man next to me whom she worried was overly sedated, and answering a doctor's questions about a child who had just been brought in. The reason I remember all this is because I had an epidural in addition to general anesthesia, so when I came to, I was relatively pain free and alert and got to see all the goings on.

Now, perhaps I'm biased because my life has been somewhat in their hands the past few days, but in the looks department, the staff at Mt. Sinai puts any television hospital drama staff to shame. These people are gorgeous. If any of you are single and in your twenties or early thirties and ready to settle down, here's what you must do. Get hurt. Not too bad. Just bad enough to get you admitted to this hospital. You will feel like a kid in a candy shop. I just had Noam Kurtis, the head of the "pain team" in here to remove my epidural and found myself blushing and flirting like a schoolgirl because the man looks more like a movie star than most of our friends who are real movie stars!

Okay, now I'm exhausted and must stop typing and go back to watching bad TV for awhile. Oh, and thanks, honey, for the guest blog!

Okay. First off – Ann is fine. If you happen to know her very well and speak to her by phone or email in the next few days , just be aware that whatever she may say or type is heavily influenced by the presence of liquid narcotics mixed with many medicines that have been shaped into pill form – all prescribed – and some of which she takes on a regular basis even when she isn’t lying prone in a designer hospital room. Secondly – her hospital room is bigger than several of the apartments we have lived in over the years. She is being cared for by a slew of highly trained doctors and nurses with a medical staff that includes a pain team, a comfort team and even a concierge. I’m not kidding. She validated my parking garage ticket. The concierge, not Ann. I’ve gone from being very thankful and impressed to wishing there was an actual parking valet. Mount Sinai is a fabulous hospital. They have a Starbucks in the lobby. They have room service. There is a chef. The menu is four pages long. Anyways – Ann is due to come home next Monday but has decided to stay for at least another week or until she has eaten her way through the pasta selections – whichever comes first. By the way – I think there may also be a spa. Which means she won’t be home for at least a month. So the good news is the surgery went extremely well and the bad news is visiting hours extend from now until Thanksgiving. I will say this – the hours you spend alone waiting for the one you love to come out of surgery are – perhaps – the definition of being alone. You wait with a forced feeling of calm and maybe a magazine or three and once you’ve gotten past the first two hours and a gaggle of People pictures featuring trout-pouted celebrities, Sports Illustrated’s NFL Preview Issue and fifteen overly-clever New Yorker cartoons – one of which contains a pit bull wearing lipstick and a hockey mom reference - an itchy little panic begins to grow in the back of your mind and you give up the half-assed reading and start to wonder just exactly what the hell is going on. But every single staff person you can find has the exact same piece of information: Still in the O.R. So the itch becomes an urge beneath an angst that begins to mulch into an ulcer of worry and fretful pacing. You pace and sit and fidget and pace. And then – she arrives. Bruised and sleepy – but there. I was never happier to see her face. My love. My wife. I’m not big on prayer – but I said many hopeful ones during those empty hours and several more in gratitude on my way back from the spa to the apartment.

I posted this while I was doing my book tour last June.

Today I did a radio tour. I sat in a studio in Times Square and was interviewed by DJs and talk show hosts in radio stations all over the country.

Most of the interviewers were nice. The most interesting question? What's it like having Dennis Miller mouthing off around the house all the time. I said that I imagined it would be a living hell. Then I said that of course, I could only venture a guess, as I've never met Dennis Miller. The poor man had just spent ten minutes thinking he was interviewing Dennis Miller's wife. He began stammering his apologies and it became clear that he had no idea whose wife it was that he was interviewing and I felt so sorry for him that I ended up repeatedly apologizing to him for not being Dennis Miller's wife.

When I got home I told Denis - my Denis - Denis Leary about it and he insisted that I have met Dennis Miller and I said that wasn't Dennis Miller, it was Jay Mohr and Denis became very annoyed because I really never have any idea who anyone is. Once, I was seated next to Moby at a dinner party. This was years ago and I had spent the summer listening to a Moby CD that Denis had made me, but I had no idea what Moby looked like. So, like I said, at this dinner party, I was seated next to a very sweet, slightly nebbishy-looking guy who seemed a little out of his element. Meg Ryan was there, Jon Stewart, Nora Ephron. I think the party was for Barry Levinson. Anyway, my sweet dinner companion was concerned that there wouldn't be anything for him to eat as he was a vegan. He was just so quiet and unassuming that I realized he was probably quite overwhelmed by the dazzling luminaries in the room and I decided to take him under my wing. I asked one of the wait staff to prepare him a salad and then I explained to him who all the important people were. At one point I asked him what he did for work. He told me that he was a musician. "How nice," I said, imagining him in an orchestra pit, his upper lip quivering above a flute, or perhaps on a subway platform strumming on a mandolin. When we left the party, Denis and I shared a ride with Jon Stewart and his wife Tracey.

"What was Moby like," Tracey asked.
"Moby was there?" I asked, in all my innocence.

Yes, it was Moby whom I had lectured on the ins and outs of fame. And it was Moby whom I had urged to send Denis a "demo CD" of his music, as there was always the chance DENIS MIGHT LIKE IT AND USE IT ON HIS SHOW! Uggggg, I'm blushing bright red just typing this now.

This is my very first blog, which was posted last April. I really didn't think I'd ever keep up with the blog. I just thought of it as a way to promote my book, OUTTAKES FROM A MARRIAGE. I ended up loving blogging and actually had to be reminded by my publicist to sometimes mention the book in my blog. SO here is it.

BIG PLANS
I’m a famous quitter. Ask my family. They’ll tell you about all my big plans. If I had done half the things I planned to do, just in the last five years alone, I’d be a goat farmer, a maker of organic goat cheese, an organic poultry farmer, a volunteer EMT, an importer of Irish Sport Horses, a best-selling novelist, a campaigner for immigrant rights, a Labradoodle breeder, a teacher of English as a second language, a daily trampoline jumper, daily tread-mill jogger and the host of my own talk show. Each of these grand plans was presented to my husband, children, and whoever else would listen, with the same degree of gushing exhilaration as the next, and there was a time when they, too, would get whipped into a lather of excitement over each idea. But no longer. Over the years, my family has learned that there’s no point in preparing the backyard for goats or fantasizing over puppies and sport horses because once I begin to process the actual details of each thing, it always seems easier to just hold-off.

“Really?” my daughter now yawns, “An EMT? Good luck with that.”

“Sure,” my husband will mumble vacantly, staring at the TV, “goats are nice. Why don’t you get started on that?” There’s no need to go into it further with me because they know that as soon as I begin to uncover the minutiae about goat stink, or nightly EMT training sessions, the whole thing will be pushed to the back burner.

So, when I told them that I was starting a blog to go on my new website, a website created to help promote my forthcoming novel, Outtakes from a Marriage, they had a good laugh at my expense. Even a friend with her own blog urged me to be realistic about it. “Everyone plans to blog daily, but sometimes it’s hard to keep up. You really have to commit to it,” she said.

“I’m committed!” I declared, and who wouldn’t be committed to the rosy future I envisioned for my fledgling blog. When I thought about my blog, I could see it, fully formed, a computer screen filled with thousands upon thousands of my very own witty observations and poignant reminiscences. I imagined people quoting my blog, stealing all my funny material from my blog, gathering around the office water cooler to talk about my latest blog. There would be controversies over my blog. When my audience grew, there would be advertisers, book deals. And of course, my own talk show...

That was a month ago. Every day since then I have not started my blog. Because, again, when I took a good hard look at the details – the logistics of blogging, I started to become a little more realistic about the whole thing, and honestly, my prospects as a successful blogger look bleak. First of all, in order to have a blog entry each day, one must write each day. Although I think constantly about writing, the truth is that I often don’t write at all, for days on end. Now, not only will I not be writing my new novel while I’m parked at Marty’s the local coffee shop, swilling coffee and gossiping with my neighbors, but I’ll also not be writing in my blog. Well, I’m going to give it a shot anyway. I will write in my blog each day, even if it’s just a sentence. Then, when people ask that intensely annoying question – “Have you been writing?” I can, for once, say yes without lying.

So, welcome to my blog, which I have decided to call, “Wicked Good Life.”

Just wanted to say thanks to all the well-wishers who posted comments and emailed me privately about tomorrow. Sorry I haven't been able to respond personally but thank you all for your nice words. xxoo Ann