You Gotta Get It Right While You Got The Time...

I know....it's been so long...too long for me, I think. I wasn't kidnapped or mad at you or distracted by a witty officemate or anything....I was just in bed for a week after I thought I could fight off that swine flu-ish fever-y thing I had by ignoring it...and then as soon as I was able to lift my head, we were off to the annual family vacay in Bermuda (more on that in a few...). And how unlike me to be silent ever, but especially in light of the major pop culture announcements and happenings and losses that occurred in these weeks...so very much to process.

So, let's get to it....when I heard that Michael Jackson had died, confirmed by a man I did not know in the parking garage on 47th and 6th...he looked up from his Blackberry and said to me: "He's dead." And I said: "It's official?" And my dad said: "Who's dead?"...and when me and the guy I didn't know explained that day's chain of events, Dad said: "Farrah Fawcett died?" So....at any rate, my very first thought upon hearing of MJ's passing was: Ryan O'Neal must be f@#$ing pissed!

I am sorry...but it's true...that was my first thought. You know, it's like this -- as a longtime PR professional, I can say that you will sell your soul to ensure your celebrity client gets his or her due, to make certain he or she is honored and respected for the achievements and impact of his or her life. But there are few PR nightmares in Hollywood as frightening and depressing for a celebrity as dying on the same day as someone more famous than you are. Poor Farrah...she deserved tributes and tears and public sympathies and the front cover of People magazine. And Ryan O'Neal, well, I don't know...I still think that he was at her bedside licking his chops, planning his Larry King appearance, finally having a reason to be on the front pages again and milking it as much as possible. And then Jacko had to go and die and f@#! up the whole evil plan. Now if that is not karma slapping Ryan in the face for his widely reported misappropriated professional jealousies and epically bad parenting and unpunished violent behavior the past forty years...well, I don't know what is. Too bad it was on Farrah's time....

So I didn't really have time to process the whole situation, no time to sit in front of Matt Lauer live from Neverland and hear all about what would become of Prince Michael and Paris and Blanket...and oh man, what about Bubbles the Chimp (now that that gorilla is back in the news Ellie wants to name her new fish "Bubbles"...a pet named Bubbles? If we are talking girly-man pet names, I much prefer "Fairydust"...). Anyway...we had no time for the speculation and statements and Monday morning quarterbacking because the next day we were off to Bermuda. We boarded the JetBlue jet out at JFK with the entire Michael Jackson catalog downloaded onto our iPods (for me it was not the widely beloved "Thriller" in which I discovered the genius of MJ, but the earlier "Off the Wall" that I loved...I wanna rock with you (all night....)....or wait, what about ....I kept my love for her locked de-e-e-e-p inside/And it cuts like a knife/She's out of my life...). Undeniable brilliance. So that is how I honored the passing of a tragic icon...singing loudly and off-key on the hour and forty-five minute flight....(anything to drown out the incessantly screaming, crying devil's spawn seated in front of me). And that was it....because there was way too much fun to have on the island to sit in front of Anderson Cooper for another second.

So, that flu-ish whatever was still kind of clinging to me and the only cure I could fathom was a week on a lounge, pink sand, cobalt skies, turquoise waters and a couple of Rum Swizzles (and a couple more...). My three little angels fluttered around me and splashed and floated and played with their cousins and fought over who would be the lucky one to get to sleep next to me that night...And I read a book cover to cover for the first time in months ("American Wife" by Curtis Sittenfeld...fictionalization of the life of Laura Bush...delicious and juicy....). And while my skin turned from a rosy golden to deep caffe latte, we sailed and snorkeled and beached and lollygagged and motorbiked across the island. We Swizzled Inn and Swaggered Out and Dark 'n' Stormied and the guys golfed Mid-Ocean and Riddell's Bay and we had a ladies' dinner at Blu and each one of us scarfed a souffle at The Fourways Inn and I bought another pair of Venetian glass earrings at The Island Shop for myself and a set for Ellie too. Just like we do every year....it is our tradition.

I guess that is why I love my Bermudian vacation...and the island in general. You know, Bermuda itself is filled with little nuances and matters of etiquette and rights of way that only apply when you are there...and that you are aware of only as a frequent visitor or resident. Of course there is the ubiquitous politeness...and there is exact measurement and tailoring required to officially make Bermuda shorts, Bermuda shorts...but you may not know this one: Don't ever, when seated at a bar, turn your back on the bartender to survey a view behind you...or you will likely find yourself buying drinks for everyone in the bar as punishment for your lack of decorum. It's true...look it up. So I guess I appreciate tradition all the more when we make our annual trip because, at this point it simply is due to tradition that we continue to visit the island each July (this year marks my 18th stay....).

You all know that I am all about setting and adhering to standards. I love making and keeping plans and following rules and regulations and schedules and being on time and honoring customs. I suppose in some ways this could be viewed as rigidity...but I see it as such -- it is my pure and simple respect for the classics. For instance, I loved that my family's Club required men to wear long pants on the golf course until only a few years ago...and when they switched over, I was secretly offended (apparently I'd much rather have my Dad and brothers and husband and sons roast in the sun than wear shorts on the course...such a breach of protocol should be outlawed...especially when it doesn't directly affect me, right?). And when we attended a black tie wedding a few years back, Rob and I agreed that he should wear a white dinner jacket (like that long-gone man of style, Humphrey Bogart...) as the wedding started during the day, well before the acceptable hour to be wearing a tuxedo. He was one of only two at the wedding who adhered to the rule and I was beyond proud...so what if you could spot him from two rooms away. And when we were in London and attended dinner at the ultra-formal Le Gavroche...because I had made the reservation, I was considered the hostess of our party, I was seated at the head of the table and the restaurant staff addressed me as "Mrs. Anderson" and no one else at the table was provided a menu on which the prices were listed....just me...and the bill was handed to me as well...so what if I slid it across the table and let Megan and Mike pay. And this goes without saying, but handwritten thank you cards should never, ever go out of style...well, assuming you didn't put it off so long that you can't remember what the gift was in the first place...

So, imagine my delight upon return from our holiday when Rob emailed me the link to this past Sunday's New York Times "Style" section, in which an article was featured on Bermuda's beloved national cocktail-- the famous Dark 'n' Stormy, which we have been enjoying for years but is now making a Stateside resurgence in bars and cocktail lounges across New York City. So of course there is a classic preparation for this refreshing cocktail, Gosling's Black Seal Rum and ginger beer, (an acquired taste, by the way...I personally stick to those sweetly pleasing Swizzles) but the Gosling family of Bermuda have trademarked the cocktail's name, which they "vigorously" defend, and they are patenting the ingredients and the amounts of each that are required in its preparation. This then makes it illegal for bartenders to make their own tweaks to the recipe or to use the name "Dark 'n' Stormy" on their menus unless the official recipe is followed. So I immediately forwarded the link to TL, who served Rob quite a few too many Dark 'n' Stormies when we visited he and JL this spring, but who also puts my traditionalism to shame, his snooty adherence is unmatched and endlessly impressive. Back a few weeks ago he read right here that we had a bottle of Crown Royal on our Memorial Day bar and though he sung the virtues of a Crown Royal Manhattan, he stated that said libation is, however, a winter drink and I was chastised for not putting the bottle away "until first snowfall." Now you see why he is one of my besties, don't you?

Anyway, I love this so much...this ballbusting rigidity...there, I said it...and I was loving reading all about the travails of the the Dark 'n' Stormy in the Style section and the Gosling family's unwavering protectiveness and pride in the brand's legacy...it impressed me so much, this deliously stuffy respect and reverence for custom. For a minute I was thinking I would like to get to know this Gosling brother who is quoted in the article...I considered hopping back on that JetBlue jet with MJ's "Off the Wall" blasting in my ears so that I could find and persuade Mr. Gosling to be my mentor or new best friend (sugar daddy?) or something...take me under his polite and perfect Gosling wings, make me his devoted student of decorum. I know, not a very "traditional" tactic but I think I could talk Rob into supporting this venture -- free Goslings Black Seal Rum for him would certainly entice his enthusiasm...

But.....I am far too irreverent and distracted to ever pull off even the minimal level of perfection required by strict traditionalists on a fulltime basis...there is that bratty freespiritedness and festivity living inside me that has to break out. You know, every once in a while I need to go out and frivolously buy a pair of strappy four-inch heels, throw on a too-short skirt, spend lots of money on beauty treatments....And then there are the raucous girls-only dinner parties...or pre-concert tailgating sessions outside Giants Stadium...or hitting a dive bar for frosty beers and extra early Happy Hours...or some midnight trampolining at the McCauleys...or a three-person conga line headed up by TJ...or a little harmless flirting with the pizza delivery guy...or watching some Real World/Road Rules Challenge marathon on MTV.

And what about all of you....how much fun would our weekly (one-sided) chats be if I only showed you my politely composed side? I mean, who would I talk to about my daily outings and weekly dramas and random musings? And what about all that newsy intrigue (don't even get me started on that Governor Sanford thing...reading those private emails and secret love notes just about made my eyes bleed...I felt like a dirty interloper...was I the only one?) and pop culture developments and Hollywood gossip that I spread as though God Himself shared the tidbit with me directly (who do you think told me about Tom Cruise and Will Smith????)...And speaking of which, who would happily listen as I conjecture about the thoughts, feelings and motivations of the celebrities involved in the most recent chain of events (sorry for judging you, Ryan O'Neal...well, maybe not...) or tragedy or scandal, if not you? I mean, well....especially since we haven't even had the chance to cover the Chastity...oh excuse me...the Chaz Bono thing....not that I was surprised or anything, I mean I have pretty much thought of him as a guy since he was perched on Cher's hip during that closing number each week on The Sonny & Cher Comedy Hour...for real...there was something about Chastity that had me wondering.... So maybe I was a shallow b*tch at five. Or perhaps, as it seems at present, I was simply perceptive...but too mindful of proper etiquette to point out the obvious...well, until now at least...

And you know what....in the grand scheme of things, as much as I love her, I wouldn't be shocked if I learned that Cher prefers her little Chastity transitioning into Chaz, to the nightmare of dying on the same day as Michael Jackson....

Missed you, by the way....xoxo, S

Photo 1: The King of Pop, in better times....

Photo 2: Not sure if that hottie is Farrah as Jill Munroe or a freshman cross-dresser....

Photo 3: Ryan O'Neal demos his stellar parenting skills...arrested alongside his meth-head spawn...tragic...

Photo 4: The first appearance of the glow-in-the-dark socks...and one of the best albums in a generation...

Photo 5: Ellie and me boating in Hamilton Harbour last week...looking like opposite sides of a Black & white cookie...no wonder no one believes she's mine...

Photo 6: My firstborn, the jealous and possessive almost 6 year old and my perfect middle child...battling to snuggle closest to me outside our Bermudian cottage...love that...

Photo 7: Enjoying that first Rum Swizzle...of that night at least...

Photo 8: Rob's style icon and every girl's dream man, Humphrey Bogart...

Photo 9: A perfectly legal and supremely delicious Dark 'n' Story...just before it was imbibed last week at The Fourways Inn, Paget, Bermuda...

Photo 10: See that festive little girl in there under the green sweater...no way she can be well-behaved all the time...

Photo 11: Look how pissed Baby Chastity is that Cher made her wear that frilly girlie frock...I swear I thought she was a boy all the way back then...