Okay, I moved a lot as a child, and as a result, I have a tremendous amount of anxiety about not fitting in, or being considered a “newby” of any kind. SO, even joining a social group that doesn’t exist in real life makes me a little crazy.

Yesterday, after joining Twitter, I couldn’t have felt more like a new kid and thankfully my friend Michael Maren, screenwriter and master twitterer, very graciously introduced me to many of his “followers” and some of them, then, became my “followers.” I know, I love that they’re called followers – it’s all fitting into my grand scheme of world domination. Anyway, I was “tweeting” away, like a complete rube, “Thank you Michael” and “So happy to meet you Robert,” and Michael discreetly emailed me to explain that on Twitter, you don’t use the person’s real name, but their twitter name. Michael’s by the way, is @mmaren. I’m @annleary, but good luck finding me there. The search engine won’t acknowledge me (yes, more painful childhood memories).

When I received Michael’s email, I chuckled because I reminded myself of my mother, a little. I’ve blogged before about my mother, whose name is Judith, but is not to be confused with Judith S. who sometimes comments here.

My mother believes in proper decorum and old-fashioned good manners, and will try to use them in today’s very casual society. For example, the first time she went to a drive-thru McDonalds, with her grandchildren, she said, into the speaker, “Hi, I’m Judy Howe, and may I please have…” Then, when she went to the pick-up window, she smiled brightly and said, “Hello! Judy Howe!” I don’t know why this makes me laugh until I weep, even typing this. You have to know my mom, maybe it’s the accent….I can’t even see right now, I’m laugh/crying so hard.

Anyway, I felt a little old-school when Michael corrected me on my Twitter behavior. So today, I went back on Twitter, and when I did a search for my name, I was relieved to find somebody even less Twitter-savvy than myself.

Her tweet was: “I’m really Judy Howe in Marblehead – can’t quite figure out this site. Help, anyone?”

Welcome Mom! Or, as I should say, welcome @skippy7777. Allow me to help you. This ain’t Marblehead. So keep it to a concise, semi-anonymous tweet if you don’t mind.

Love you Mom.

If any of you are touring college campuses this summer, with your “rising seniors” (love that term, it makes them sound so rebellious), please allow me to offer some helpful suggestions:

1) All the information is online. On the school’s website. All of it. So, when the perky leader of the information session asks if there are any questions, the correct response is to sit quietly, with your hands folded on your lap. Or, if you really need attention, you can shake your head vigorously and mouth the word no . Please, I beseech you, do not raise your hand and ask if the school offers programs abroad. YES! YES THEY ALL DO! It’s on the website. Don’t ask if the school has adequate security. YES! The place is more secure than the Pentagon. Go online and read all about their alarm systems, their date rape task force, their walking escorts, sober driving buddies, video monitors that cover every square inch of the campus, SWAT teams that arrive within seconds of an emergency call, but please don’t force the rest of us to listen to the Admissions Officer drone on, just so you can show off with your effing questions.

2) Please don’t ask if your bilingual, 4.0 average, olympic swim-team shortlisted daughter can have triple majors. It’s ONLINE. And to the guy who asked this in an information session we attended last week – I recognized you. We were at the same preschool information session 13 years ago. You were the one asking if the school would be “stimulating” enough for your 3 year old who was reading Homer’s Odyssey. I know I’m not the only one who has fantasized about you. Not the kind of fantasies you have in mind, egghead. The kind that involve baseball bats and kneecaps.

3) Finally, nobody is going to remember that you were the one who complimented the tour guide on her outfit/choice of majors/country of origin, so stop with all the brown-nosing.

Honestly, you could visit all the colleges in one day if it weren’t for these parents who thrill at the sound of their own voices, and must ask the most inane questions, no matter how unbearably hot it might be, or how hard the rain is coming down.

So, in summary. Hands on laps. No talking, no eye contact. Follow the example of your kids. Just sign in and follow the leader pf the tour. Then go ONLINE. It’s all there.

Ahhhhhh. I feel better now.

Ylenia just sent an uplifting report from Abruzzo. It’s posted in yesterday’s comments.

Yesterday, Denis’s mother, his two sisters and their families came to our house for Easter dinner. Denis’s mother Nora, about whom I plan to dedicate an entire blog page soon, is recovering from a knee replacement, which has barely slowed her down. She’s incredibly energetic and vivacious and really just had the surgery, but came bustling in with her cane, barely limping.

Denis’s youngest sister Betsy is the only one with small children now. Her boys are ages 11, 9 and 6. I miss having kids around during holidays and admit I was a little sad this weekend. I even bought egg dye, but decided not to dye the eggs because nobody wanted to dye them with me. And nobody would be hunting for them.

Then, Connor, Liam and Blake arrived. Here’s Liam with the elf.

Our elf is a very discerning creature and will make herself scarce when certain children visit – children of the pinching, dropping varieties. But she adores the Hylton boys. She thinks they have impeccable manners and has no idea that they secretly make devil ears behind her head when she’s posing for pictures.

Betsy regaled us with hilarious stories about the logistics of being a working mother who manages these active boys’ schedules. One story involved a certain boy being told to pee into a cup, because there was no time to stop on the way to a hockey game. The next day, Betsy, recovering from a rather fun party, was driving the boys to another game. She was a bit parched so she took a swig from the drink in the cup holder next to her …yada, yada, yada …much spewing of warm liquid and foul words from Mom.

The boys walked up to the barn to feed the horses with me. Liam is very smart and talkative and is at an age where he is interested in facts, so I learned a lot about fossils, math, baseball and the human body, during our walk.

“Did you know that the smellier your poop is, the healthier you are?” he asked.

“No,” I replied. I must admit, the news pleased me, but it seemed unlikely, so I said, “it seems like the opposite would be the case.”

Liam stopped in his tracks and said, “Wait, no! The BIGGER the poop, the healthier you are! It’s because your digestive system is working well. I read that.”

I wanted to hug him then. Finally, somebody who is interested in talking about the stuff I like to talk about. I miss having kids around, especially kids at that age. There’s really something amazing about the 8-12 crowd. I love them.

Last night we attended a New York screening of Marley and Me, to which dogs were invited (they were allowed to bring their owners as well). There was a red carpet and all the dogs had their photos taken. Here we are with Daphne, who was, by far, the most well behaved dog at the event. She really was shocked at the behavior of some of the other dogs. In the photo, she is looking at the antics of the dog who played Marley, who was just off camera. The Marley dog had been trained to act a little wild and bark at people and Daphne was absolutely mortified. She posed politely for the cameras, then slept on the floor at my feet during the whole film.

She is a good dog.

I took photos of other dogs on the red carpet and today, when I get my new USB cord, I will be able to load them all on the computer for you.

Maybe some of you will recall that I have a weekly NPR radio show called IN HOUSE. The show was on hiatus for a while because I had surgery and then really needed some time to work on my book. Well, tomorrow WHDD-FM, (robinhoodradio.com), will broadcast a brand new episode of IN HOUSE, featuring author and NPR commentator Heather King.

I interviewed Heather when I was in Los Angeles. She’s a dear old friend and during the interview we discussed why she, a native New Englander, chose to make her home in LA. We also discussed her books and her relatively recent conversion to Catholicism. As I was editing the interview, I thought about how wildly radical it is, in this day and age, to devote oneself to a religion that is relatively out of vogue with today’s popular culture. It seems that the Catholic church has become a much scorned institution, as has Christianity in general, in our society. Of course some highly unethical priests and hate-mongering fundamentalists are mostly to blame for this, but it occurs to me that it takes a very brave and devoted individual to proudly (and wittily – she’s one of the funniest people I know) assert her faith, despite the prejudices.

Yesterday, when Denis and I were shooting this video about buying books for the holidays, the producer kept warning us not to use the word “Christmas,” but instead, to use the word, “holidays,” when discussing gift giving. I would have said “holidays” anyway, because that’s what everybody says now, but it sounded like letting the word “Christmas” slip would be like accidentally saying the f-word on camera. When did Christmas become so obscene? It makes me sad, thinking about it, because, I’m not a religious person, but as a Catholic child, I was in love with the story of the baby Jesus and this time of year still is very precious to me because of those memories, which are enmeshed with the memories of my own babies and their early Christmases. Now, it seems, it is very appropriate to talk about all the material things you plan to buy and get, but any mention of the spiritual aspect of the holiday is considered almost vulgar. Shouldn’t it be the other way around?

Anyway, I plan to do monthly installments of IN HOUSE now, at least until I finish the book, because the interviewing and editing takes up quite a bit of time. Have a couple of great interviews lined up, though, so stay tuned!

Somebody emailed me this image of the statue of Roger Conant, after reading my blog about his curious pose. The unveiling of this statue must have created quite a stir amongst the people of Salem. It would be interesting to see more statues like this – showing our heroes in more candid, relaxed poses. Why must they always be on rearing horses? Why not show them like old Roger – clearly a man who knew how to handle himself in any situation.

Okay, I don’t know how to download the video so you can watch it, but here’s a still of me seated in the gutter outside the FX Emmy after party last night, ala Lindsay Lohan. And I don’t even drink. I really don’t get out much clearly. Heels, long dress, curb, paparazzi are too much for me to deal with at one time. SO embarrassing. Anyway, that’s how my night ended.

Here’s how it began: We got all dressed up and the makeup artist took this photo. Within an hour all that makeup would be dripping down my face in rivulets of sweat.

When you arrive at these awards shows, the traffic is bumper to bumper. You sit in your car and say,” Hey, there’s so and so in the next car,” and you worry about your liipstick and gobble mints and argue about what music should be playing on the radio.

When you get out of the car, you must go through security:

And then you’re on the red carpet, which is a little bit crowded:

There are bleachers filled with photographers on both sides of the red carpet:

They took photos of us:

The producers of various shows like E and entertainment Tonight ask you to wait in line to be interviewed. We seemed to be following the Colberts. Then we met up with Samantha Bee, Jason Jones and Rob Riggle from the Daily Show. I’m a HUGE fan of Samantha Bee and had never met her in person, and she was just as funny as you’d imagine she’d be.

I’m not going to show you any photos of the inside of the theater because you probably had the misfortune of watching it on TV. Was the show as unfunny at home as it was live? Denis didn’t win, but RECOUNT got two Emmys, which was great.

Afterward, we went to the Governor’s Ball and the HBO party and hung out with Laura Dern and Kevin Spacey. Then we decided to stop in at the FX party, which is where I decided to pitch myself at the feet of the TMZ guys. Once we got inside though, it was nice. We hung out with Rescue Me Executive Producer (and Denis’s business partner) Jim Serpico and his wife Sherry:

And we chatted with Glenn Close, who just gets more gorgeous every year.

It’s 9:30 on the morning of the Emmy Awards, and already the day has been a huge success. First, it’s overcast. Honestly, that clear, sunny sky grinning maniacally at you each morning gets a little tiresome. I’m a New Englander and need a little gloom to make me feel great. I felt so great that I managed to beat Denis at tennis, something I rarely am able to do any more. I didn’t just beat him. I squashed him.

Then we rode our bikes to Venice and back. Denis likes to ride fast, seeing everything as a potential cardio workout, but I can’t because I love watching the people so much. Surfers, bikers, skaters, babies in jogging strollers, homeless people engaged in their morning grooming rituals (I’ve never seen more jovial and happy-looking homeless people in my life) dogs of all shapes and sizes, surfers young and old. I saw a man in a wet suit carrying a surfboard who looked like he was pushing 90. Denis stared wistfully at a street hockey game that was starting up.

Then we came back to the hotel and gossiped about the people at last night’s party. One very famous TV actor and his wife snuck off with Denis to smoke in a dark corner. The wife kept looking furtively over her shoulder between drags on her cigarette. She told her famous husband to lower his cigarette at one point. I asked her why and she said, “our son’s in kindergarten now, and there are … other mothers here … if they ever saw us smoking…” she became so overwrought with anxiety that she snubbed out her cigarette and hastily stuffed her mouth with gum.

Later, as we were waiting for our car, Camryn Manheim (sp?) said to us, “I’m so embarrassed for the people who have those big SUV’s picking them up. I have a Prius.” I said, “I know, you’d think that with everything that’s going on in the world, people would be a little more sensitive about the environment …” and just then our tank pulled up. Cadillac sponsors Rescue Me and had provided us with a GIANT black Lincoln Navigator. Thank God we had Camryn Manheim to be embarrassed for us. It’s hard having all that shame to yourself.

As I mentioned yesterday, we’re staying at this beautiful hotel right on the beach. What I chose not to tell you is that we are staying on a floor that is undergoing construction. In fact, our suite is the only one not under construction on this floor. The door to the right is our room.

The stairs and elevator are on the part of the floor that is closed off and covered with tarps and equipment. Yesterday, when the lovely hostess brought us up here, she led us through many long halls and then through a door that said “Staff Only.” She asked us how our trip was and made other polite small talk, but never explained why we had passed the lobby and elevators and were now walking in a dark hall lined with towering boxes of hotel shampoo.

We walked through a linen closet, through another storage area and then found the gigantic service elevator that took us to our room. The hostess finally explained about the construction and said it should all be finished by today. It clearly won’t be, but we’re actually glad because we have seen the inner workings, the very bowels of this hotel, and have made great friends with many of the workers here. I decided to photograph our journey out of the hotel early this morning, when Denis and I went to play tennis. We left our room and our beautifully carpeted hall, and entered this hallway:

Then we entered this room to wait for the elevator:

In order to get off on the lobby floor, we have to walk through the kitchen:

The staff is really nice, but it’s a hectic place to be in the morning, so we have learned to take the elevator down one flight and then we just have to walk through this room…

up one flight, and we’re back among the paying guests, who swagger around braying into their cellphones about deals. It’s really much nicer in the back hallways with all the polite, friendly people who seemed to get a kick out of the fact that we were wedged in the freight elevator with them and their room service carts all day.

We rode bikes to the tennis courts. Denis made me ride the pink one:

He carried the racquets:

And he won (as usual).

These are the public courts in Santa Monica. The beach is on the other side of those palms:

It was so fragrant and beautiful this morning, there was the aroma of salt air, eucalyptus, suntan lotion. It was 70 degrees, no humidity. No wonder all the other tennis players are so good, Denis and I kept telling each other, as we stomped around the court and swatted clumsily at our balls. A gorgeous pair that looked like they could take on the Williams sisters played a fierce game on the court next to ours. We’d be great too if we lived in a place where you can play outdoors all year around, we kept assuring each other. Then we pedaled back to the hotel, toward the majestic Malibu hills, with the sand and the sea sparkling all around and beautiful people (on skates, bikes, skateboards) gliding alongside us, and we seemed to sail along in procession with them, as if we had always been a part of this graceful sidewalk regatta. Then we parked our bikes, and followed a giant towel cart up to our room.

We’re going to the Emmys this weekend. Here’s the thing: I want to conceal a small digital video recorder somewhere on my body and record the scene on the red carpet. Because you really can’t get a sense of it if you’re not there, walking along amidst the shoving publicists and the screaming fans. One minute somebody’s stepping on your dress, and the next minute you’re face to face with the most distorted and inflated pair of lips you have ever seen.

And people are just grabbing attention from the air like it’s money. I’ve said it before – I think I said it in an interview – it’s like a narcissists convention, and, being slightly narcissistic myself, I am fascinated by the energy on these red carpets and want to find a way to share it with you, my blog readers. So, I just need to figure out how to carry the thing without anyone knowing. Am open to suggestions.

I just have to figure out how to do it without Denis knowing I’m doing it, because he has warned me that if get kicked out of the Emmys, I have to walk back to the hotel.

Here we are at the last three Emmys. Last year:

The year before:

And the year before that:

I always think I look a little like a transvestite when I wear all that makeup. This year, I’m less blonde. And less young.