Being a swimmer*, just about the only time I see any coverage of my sport is during the Olympics. August was ages ago already, so I was fairly stoked to find a video of Anderson Cooper racing Michael Phelps for a “60 Minutes” interview.

Sure, Michael Phelps whipped Anderson’s booty, but that’s ok. AC gets mad props for trying.  Also, he’s adorable.

*For any of my swim group friends who may be reading this: I know, I know, I shouldn’t be calling myself a swimmer at this point, but I’m working my way back into the water. Encouragement and threats welcomed.

Remember last summer when we thought spending a few weeks at the beach seemed perfectly reasonable? I do. Vaguely.

Taking hundreds of pictures during our Vineyard trip last August was a clutch move. Sure, the memories will sustain us for a while. More importantly, my laptop is throwing off a lot of heat as I fix the tilted horizons and try to eliminate zombie dog eyes… and I’m sure running a computer is far cheaper than turning the heat up above 58 degrees.

Viewing the world from the late November market’s underbelly, hitting the road for two weeks seems a little extravagant. But I wouldn’t want the money back. Blowing it on an overland parking permit, Back Door Donuts, Sharkey’s margaritas and fishing poles (the ones a certain dog who shall remain nameless ate somewhere between Providence and New London) sure was fun. Pull up a chair and warm your hands by the CPU with me as I stroll down memory lane.

I’m still enamored of the clams in the bucket. If I took one picture of these, I took 4 dozen. Greedy greedy greedy.

The Edgartown Lighthouse is beautiful inside and out. And, yeah, I remember those flip flops. I think Talullah ate them some time in early September.

More extravagant memories after the jump.

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Although we only had 12 people here yesterday, i think I cooked enough for several dozen more. What a feast: brined turkey, stuffing, mashed potatoes, sweet potatoes, a cheese board, three pies.. and that’s just what I made, never mind what two of my sisters and my mom contributed. Thanks to a late night of pre-Thanksgiving cooking and a touch of insomnia for the past few nights, I am completely exhausted.

My youngest, who dressed up as a chef for Halloween, couldn’t have been happier helping me cook. He’s finally at an age where when he comes in the kitchen to help, he really does help! He couldn’t have been more disappointed when I sent him to bed Wednesday before I put the Yukon Golds through the potato ricer (my top Thanksgiving gadget of all time). He was in the kitchen before me, sorting dishes (and breaking wine glasses - whoops) and ready to get cooking.

What a kid. I think I’ve officially turned over Thanksgiving hosting duties to him, as of yesterday.

I am greatly outnumbered in my family. Boy husband. Boy dogs. Boy children. Boy cat.

I tried overcompensating at first by getting a girl cat. And that look on her face may tell you right away, she’s not that into girl stuff. I’m not either. We get along great.

She’s a little feral. For the first year she lived with us, the only real cuddling we did was when she would jump on my back while I did yoga.

Actually, that’s the only real cuddling we’ve ever done.

When we brought this ridiculously adorable mess of a girl dog into our family last year, it’s possible I went overboard with the idea of having a fluffy little princess. I’m not sure why; girl stuff has never been my thing.

While shopping for dementor masks and ninja knives and other boy-like Halloween trappings last year, I may have picked up a purple tutu for her. What dog doesn’t want to dress up like a ballerina? Come on. You know they all do. It’s a great idea. Everybody thinks so.

Except, possibly, for Talullah.

This is for Stamford Talk, who’s asked me to post some pictures from my trip to Cannes. Dear, dear Talk… I regret to tell you that I took a small handful of lame pictures with my iPhone while I was there. It was partly because I was working, partly because it rained so dang much there weren’t a lot of opportunities for quaint pictures of this beautiful seaside resort.

Let’s start with my room. My assistant fought tooth and nail to get me into this room, which somehow seemed more desirable than the newer hotel down the street where everyone else was staying. I’m not sure if the fringe curtain around the king-sized bed was very French or just very slutty. You decide:

More fun after the jump

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I’m back, still shocked by sunset coming so early since I missed the clock change last week. The light was delicious this evening, reminding me that autumn is coming to an end all too soon.

You can kinda sorta see the reflection of some of my office detritus (lamp, picture, mess) if you squint hard enough.

The chateau was beautiful and romantic, with a centuries-old terrace directly on the sea. It was close and warm as the endless deluge of rain kept us within the old walls. I heard Obama’s name in countless conversations in languages I didn’t understand.

After, most of my colleagues gathered in a nearby bar to watch the returns. Wanting access to Kos and interactive maps and Connecticut returns and the man I’ve watched the returns with for the past 16 years (if only by email), I retuned to the broadband comfort of my room.

My 2 a.m. tears were joyous as Sky News called Pennsylvania. Florida was inching its way back into my good graces. Emails, tweets, early returns (showing Chris Shays unemployed at long last!) restored my faith in America. I gave in to the siren’s call of sleep at 3, missing the acceptance speech but confident we finally got it right.

The sea is swirling and crashing in a joyful dance. Everywhere I am greeted with congratulations and handshakes from the Europeans, and happy tears of relief and amazement from the Americans.

My boys know their parents voted for Obama. Some day, they will see beyond the historic moment of electing a black man. They will understand what was at stake in this election. This moment in time will have a legacy. I am grateful and humbled to have had a voice in making a better world for my children.

Have you voted yet?

Go change the world already.

I can hear the pounding of the Meditteranean surf over the white noise of the incessant rain. I have a night of work ahead of me (not hard work, mind you - a cocktail party, then a celebration at a chateau with a French wines theme) followed by a long night of fretting over election returns from afar. I should soon be changing back into my dress, my boots, my raincoat. But the pull of the warm featherbed and the non-stop TV coverage and the internet and the moment I am yearning for is holding me here.

I didn’t sleep well last night, and as a result I can tell you that this poor Sky News correspondent who was in the dark 12 hours ago interviewing people in Times Square is still there. He just mentioned it’s going to be an awful long night. I couldn’t agree more.

This is my third stay at the Heathrow Hilton, and my second time on the way over. Once I stayed here on the way home after an twelve day death march through Europe with a broken rib. Let’s just say I didn’t win many friends that trip.

Regardless, after a long-assed flight over with and older and somewhat chubby American man in front of me leaning so far back in his chair that he was practically in my lap for the better part of seven hours, here I am.  Oscar’s in the lobby is far more appealing than you might think. Pleasing lighting, good beer on tap (tonight I’m sampling a Boddington’s), and a surprisingly decent menu. For a HIlton.  My dining adventure this evening is hicken tikka masala, which is clearly shorthand for “chicken breast tooped with a dash or coriander, a bit of yogurt, and plenty of Campbell’s condensed tomato soup.”

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Did you ever decide, before going on a high-visibility business trip to France, that you wanted to feel really chic and great about yourself? Did you ever then book a hair appointment for 36 hours before getting on the plane, and then for some reason think copper highlights sounded like a good idea? Heck, since your son has hair the color of a brand new, shiny penny… shouldn’t copper highlights look great on your brown hair?

Did you ever end up with chunky streaks of red, strongly resembling the yarn on top of Raggedy Ann’s head? Or, to be more accurate, the exact same color as the color of the bush in your back yard you’d been prattling on about all week?

Do you know what really fixes the problem?

Scissors.

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