Hit by a Brick

God, I hate jetlag.  Maybe because the leadup to this trip was so intense, or maybe it's that fact that the two dogs are equally jetlagged, but this time around is a doozy.

We got taken last evening to a very lovely block party hosted by my sister's neighbors the Retired Zillionaires, a distinguished-looking older couple of the type normally seen in your better cruise-ship brochures or perhaps selling walk-in bathtubs in the backs of more sedate magazines.  Their Great Room, at the back of a house that looks something like what the White House might if only the occupants had a little money, looks out over a pond and features more shades of neutral than I thought existed in nature or out of it.  The art was handsome and intimidating, except the large piece over the mantelpiece, sadly in absentia as it was off gracing some sort of retrospective at a museum in Switzerland.  Fortunately, they had a spare Louise Nevelson to hang in its place. It was that kind of block party.

Mr. Muscato made his trademark killer guacamole, which was a big hit, and a good thing, too, as I ensured a big blot in the family copybook by falling fast asleep on a sofa.  At 6:15 p.m., and after only half a martini.

Today went moderately better, but only because we've not done a single useful thing.  Later this week it's back on the road, but for moment my primary goal is staying up until after dark.

Have I mentioned yet that I'm tired?