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.

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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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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Don’t they look excited? I’d like to think I have this same attitude: happy, and up for anything.

Unfortunately, I think this is a bit of a better view of me in my post-vacation, return-to-work, back-to-homework-and-endless-soccer-practices state:

I have an appointment this afternoon at Sadist & Associates. And I don’t want to go.

I’ve never been afraid of going to the doctor before. Unlike my youngest, who gets the vapors as soon as we mention the doctor, I’ve never once had a fear of doctors. Unfortunate genetics have left me with an aversion to oral surgeons, but the vision of my toothless future is usually enough to motivate me to man up and go.

You know what’s a bad idea? Booking a double appointment at the pediatrician, forcing your thick-as-thieves children to be in the same room when they get shots. I thought I learned this a few years ago, but we old people sometimes forget. Younger boy starts crying, older boy (who is truly one of the nicest people I ever met, in stark contrast to the rest of his immediate family) starts crying out of sympathy.

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It’s blowing through the trees, in the wake of a tornado watch seven miles away. Rustling the leaves as they hold on so tightly and deny the march toward fall.

The wind rises above the crickets and the ceiling fan and vies for my attention. It’s telling me, listen.

Embrace the sunsets. Roll in them. Taste all forty flavors.

Get outside, it tells me.  These days are few. Squeeze that last bit of sunblock out of its tube and go.

I know they are all here. But I can’t figure out how to put them together.

Get dressed. Drive to office. Put key in door.

Now what?  The five hundred emails?

I guess that’s where I’ll start. And I’ll fill you in on my email neuroses another time.

Are you familiar with the book The Day The Babies Crawled Away by Peggy Rathman? If you have little ones, it’s worth checking out. The artist / author did all of the artwork in silhouette against a fiery sunset . Let’s just say she’s a better artist than I will ever be, but I sure had fun trying.

Last year, my family and I discovered clamming at Wasque. Clams, clams, glorious clams. Because we have no sense, we took buckets and buckets and buckets of ‘em. I don’t exactly know what it was we thought we’d do with 82 bushels of clams. They don’t exactly travel well on, say, a seven hour car trip.

This year we’re showing restraint and imposing a one-bucket limit on ourselves. In this case, an orange bucket.

And yes, they were delicious.