Desperately Seeking Hepburn. And a Good Multi-Vitamin

Hand-wrote a good piece yesterday that I meant to post here. I'd planned to, just as soon as I got home. On the train I half-read my book, half-visualized myself at my desk pounding out my thoughts, publishing my words, and smiled the whole trip home.

But then I got home. And I didn't sit down and write. I hesitated, letting myself be distracted by thoughts of dinner (Why didn't I thaw the chicken breasts? should I just do a salad? are there any croutons? is there time to go out and buy some croutons?), wondering where UPS was with my package (I mean what the hell? where is it? the tracking page showed it "out for delivery" since before 1 AM!), my mom's sciatica (Is the physical therapy even helping? is she going to be in a wheelchair this time next year?) and The Looney Tunes Show (Okay, the jury's still out about the transformation of Bugs from anarchistic wiseguy to put-upon straight man but seriously, they nailed the perennially self-absorbed Daffy Duck; Chuck Jones and Michael Maltese should be pleased).

Then I was just...tired. I sat down for a while. Then I couldn't sit still. I didn't feel like sitting at another desk--having done it for six hours straight already--tapping on a keyboard. After a miserably cold and rainy April it was finally gorgeous outside; I should have been lacing my sneaks and heading to Washington Park for some much needed exercise.

Or continuing William J. Mann's dynamite bio, Kate: The Woman Who Was Hepburn. I have to tell you, I am loving this book. I've just reached the chapter where the indomitable Kate, basking in the acclaim of her stage and screen work in The Philadelphia Story after a turbulent 10-year climb, is finally getting her chance to meet and work with actor's actor Spencer Tracy in Woman of the Year, the first of their nine films. Tracy was a married, devoutly Catholic, deeply troubled, hard-drinking man's man whose torment has been glossed over in nearly every account of his life. I like how Mann's sympathetic but clear-eyed examination of Hepburn's life and myth offers as well a more honest appraisal of her beloved "Spence."

So I was just settling in with Kate when the phone rang; ohhhhhh....it was Mike. My lovely, lonely Michael, who always promises to keep it short but will bend your ear for two solid hours, saying goodbye three times before actually hanging up. (No offense, babe)

By the time I returned to the book I was too sleepy to concentrate, nodding off over the pages and snapping awake to read the same paragraph four times before giving it up.

Tomorrow, Kath,
I'm there
I swear

So that was it. With reluctance I powered off my PC, promising myself I'd post the piece tomorrow. I was just too damned tired to do anything.

I have got to do something about my metabolism. This is getting ridiculous.