friends. romans. countrymen.

I’ve blogged since ’98. Under names that weren’t my own. Then I ran across Stephanie Klein and got a little gutsy. This week the blogess is staring at belly fuzz (pregnant with twins) and soliciting foodie ornaments for a Christmas tree she’s designing with University Co-Op in Austin.

Rick Lee (aka Best Eye Ever) is in New York, hanging out at the Javits Center. I’m guessing he’s at the Photo Plus Expo my guy’s been salivating over for some weeks now. But November is for Italy. For Rome. If it’s for anything.

Which brings me to Kenju, who just got back from the city of cities. We’ve been discussing painted ceilings and delicious trattorie – think antipasti, cheese and wine – that don’t make you fat.

Finally, I haven’t had a chance to brag on this lovely chicadee yet. So I will now. Paige Wood. Awesome…That’s what she is! (I soooo just channeled a Saturday Night Live Spartan.) If you’re in Los Angeles tomorrow stop by The Tangier on Hillhurst Avenue and check her out. She’ll also be at Room 5 on Saturday. If you’re no where near…then hop on over to Myspace and listen to the song I’ve had on repeat for two weeks now.

remember remember the fifth of november…

The English aren’t so much into Halloween. Sure, the odd little fairy will dance through the street and if you’re not careful hoodlums from across the river will throw a brick through your window. But it’s really not so much about All Hallows Eve as Bonfire Night. The pyrotechnics (think 4th of July in the Fall) start well before the fifth of November and last until they don’t. Students get drunk and children come out to beg. ‘A penny for The Guy’. Some still make an effort to drag effigies through the streets. Others just sit in hooded splendor at Tesco and Sainsburys waiting to throw your penny back in your face. Of course they meant a fiver.

For those not up on 17th century English history, Bonfire Night celebrates the Gunpowder Plot – a failed attempt by Guy Fawkes et al to blow up the King and Parliament. Long story short, someone ratted him out, the plot was foiled, and The Guy was tortured for a few days before being hung, drawn and quartered.

The tradition began a year later, in 1606, when the King and Parliament commissioned sermons to remind “the simple and ignorant heerein” of Fawkes’ demise and to serve as a warning to each new generation that treason will never be forgotten.

Four hundred years on, the day is still celebrated with fireworks and bonfires. With the burning of child-made effigies of Fawkes. And with the rhyme:

because i’m no longer 21

There’s a sacrifice to be made for the confidence and good sense that comes with age. My sister says it’s the stomach and points to her I’ve-gone-up-to-a-size-TWO gut. I say she’s insane (because anyone who knows her knows how fabulous that thrice laboured body looks). I say it’s the face.

My skin specialist has done her best to assuage my fear of fine lines and wrinkles by introducing me to Japanese skin care and saying things like: “Buffy you’re lucky you have such (SUCH) a chubby face. Thin faced girls are the first to age.” I don’t normally let skinny Swiss women talk about my fatness – face or no – but Heidi’s a friend and gives me discounts on photofacials and microderm. Bless. So I endure. I endure because I really couldn’t cope without her, and because I have my own tried and tested method of gaging the aging process. One that involves teenagers, alcohol and produce.

Every time I visit the States I make a point of buying a head of lettuce and a bottle of cheap red from a grocery store. (Because in Europe it doesn’t count. In Europe fourteen year olds regularly order rounds.) I do this to thrill in the delights of being carded by a college freshman. It’s my way of underhandedly begging for compliments. Of receiving without asking. At least, it use to be.

The day before The Big 3-0 the card came out for Chianti. A cashier fed my details into the register and I laughed ’til I snorted. Sure. I was practically thirty. But I was passing for twenty. (High Five. Borat Style.) Two days later I got cocky and ordered a glass of house. The waitress smiled and didn’t ask for I.D. I nearly cried. The next night I decided to make Beef Burgundy for the family and “that’s ok. I’ll get the wine myself, thanks.” I did cry that time.

I keep looking in the mirror wondering, how do they know? Is there some visible forehead line or age dent that signals to pimply faced youths that I’m no longer one of them?

He just laughs and says “Rejoice! You’ve managed to pull it off for nine years” and “Besides, do you really want to be mistaken for a twenty year old?” I say “No”. And know he’s right.

Still. I don’t like it. Not one bit.