Happy Belated Fourth of July to everyone! It might be Monday, but hell, Nicole Kidman doesn't seem to know that (she named her Monday-born kid Sunday today), so I'm going to pretend I don't either. It's indescribably wonderful to be back home after nearly five weeks on tour. Not that it wasn't fun--because actually getting to meet you all was the great part--but I definitely started to fantasize about sleeping in my own bed. Upon returning last week, I promptly slept for two entire days and then spent time reveling in the small things: taking a Diet Coke from my fridge without getting charged $6, roaming around in only a T-shirt without needing to post the "Do Not Disturb" sign on the door, and my personal favorite, taking a bath without having to envision what grossness may have preceded me.
Home has been so wonderful, in fact, that I refused to leave it. Unlike most fellow New Yorkers, Mike and I did something blasphemous this Fourth of July weekend: we stayed in the city. I know! It's horrifying to admit, but we actually had a long overdue NYC weekend. We saw Tell No One at the Sunshine Cinema and both loved it (not only was it well-written and acted, but it was also subtitled, which had the added bonus of making it feel like a cultural undertaking instead of just an awesome movie), had a BBQ with friends on their roof deck, hit some golf balls at Chelsea Piers (and by "hit" I really mean "attempted to make occasional contact with said golf balls"), met some other friends at Dean's for brick-oven pizza, walked the dogs along the Hudson River, and generally ate more Pinkberry than anyone should admit to--ever.
Merely reporting this has exhausted me, so I'm off to find more yogurt and another nap, in that order. xxx