Dear Stewart,

Well, it looks my plan for a letter a day is already a failure! I was kind of busy yesterday, but I suppose that's no excuse.

Friday is my day off, and in the past, would've been a great day for a lunch date (with you, of course), but lately, I've been all booked up, which is mostly nice... I do love having that day to myself. However, yesterday I took my mother to her chemotherapy appointment, and though I hesistate to call it "nice," it kind of was.

Mom was in a good mood, and looked pretty good. When I got to her house, my dad was gone already. He'd left early to drive up the coast a ways to visit his brother, who has been ill. They're not twins (his brother is younger; kind of the not-quite-as-wonderful version of my dad), but for years I always thought it was funny just how alike they look, though my uncle is beach-city hip, and my dad, well, he isn't. Anyway, the house smelled like bacon (my brother had made breakfast), and my mom was in the living room, getting ready to take a shower.

After we visited for awhile, my mom took the fastest shower I've ever seen (less than 10 minutes; maybe 7 minutes altogether! I guess having  lost her hair means there's a lot less stuff to do in there), and was soon ready to go.

When my mom had to go through chemotherapy before, I think it was in 2007, the facility and her doctor were nowhere near as nice or as professional as where she goes now. I suppose that experience prepared us for what we're going through now, but I am so glad my parents chose to change insurance (at my suggestion) and actually like the way things turned out. I have confidence that these people know what they're doing. It's not exactly someplace you would want to go, but having to be there isn't as bad as it could be. My sister went with my mom last month and I've gone just one other time. I recognized some of the ladies getting treatment , and the nurses, who are, with one exception, sweet and kind and caring and competent: the four words you want associated with your mother's chemotherapy nurses (the one exception wasn't there).

Mom settled in easily and I sat next to her and tried to read People magazine, which, let's face it, is total crap. Kate Gosselin was on the cover in all her hair extension glory, and there is no person I care about less. I should have taken my lap top or a book, but I did have my iPhone, so I read the New York Times and listened to Pandora radio and NPR and texted with my sister, my husband, and my friend Andrea, and watched all the goings on with the other patients (discreetly, of course).

Anyway, so after that we had a very late lunch with my dad (he got home just about the same time we did), I ran an errand to the crazy-busy Culver City Post Office, and then it was time for me to be in Santa Monica for a rehearsal of The Trojan Women.

We took about a month off for the holidays, but start again tonight (Saturdays and Sundays only). The cast had a few rehearsals earlier this week without me so Friday was my first time in the booth. It was wonderful to see my friends and to run the familiar but slightly different show again. I was not as tight with my cues as I should be but I know now that the only person who notices that stuff is me (Charles wasn't there). Tonight I will be perfect (there are few things about which I am so confident). There were new words that stuck out in the performances, but my favorite line is spoken by Hecuba, and it doesn't really mean anything out of context. It's a fragment, really: she's talking about one of her daughters, and her desire to see her again, which is of course denied. She says "This little this," and because of my ignorance of the original play I don't know if that's an original line from Euripides (I doubt it) or what. I love that line - it's useful for those occasions when you want what you're never going to get and what you want seems so simple for somebody to give to you that you don't know why they're witholding it (not necessarily talking about my situation with you here, but then again...).

This little this.

I noticed that you have not called yet to make your reservations to see the show (unless you're being tricky and they're under another name). I guess as a famous person there's probably a protocol for doing something like that (I [unfortunately] saw "Notting Hill") or maybe you think I would blab about it here before the fact and you'd be swarmed with people. If that's the deal, I would like to say that I promise: I swear I will not do that. Instead I would glow on the inside and be incredibly excited and flushed and nervous and it would give me the opportunity to make sure my hair is nice that day.

So. (310) 319-9939. Make a reservation, and speak with a sexy Frenchwoman. You won't regret it.

The Trojan Women is now playing at City Garage Theater in Santa Monica
January 9 - February 21 (Saturday and Sunday only)

Love you,
Irene