David the photographer’s assistant was bringing in bags and bags of gear this morning with the door wide open so that fresh baked cheesecake smell was wafting into the hallway just as hot neighbor Eric came in from walking his dogs, and hot neighbor Eric whipped his head round and said, “Oh my god, that smells amazing.” Nice job, David, even though recent evidence seems to point to hot neighbor Eric playing for the other team. The thing is, it just doesn’t matter, because as long as you are on the baked-good team, you are A-OK with me.



By nine a.m., the whole troupe had assembled—Jessica the writer, Brice the stylist, Tria the photog, David the assistant, Sarah the art director—and we were on to the first of many pots of a very strong, very dark roast.



Jessica’d told me they’d be shipping a few props over before the shoot, but in the last few days so many boxes have arrived that it looks like I got married or something. After my third day in a row picking up UPS shipments from my super, I said, “Sonia, um, all this isn’t mine, really.” She smiled and said, “Come on!” like I need to join Shopaholics Anonymous. She may even have winked. Had she not been handing me large boxes from Urban Outfitters and Hable Construction, she may even have tried to nudge.

So Jessica and I got to opening the boxes—so many cushions, my word, so many cushions. And some plain sheets,’cause mine are all patterned, and I don’t know why, but they didn’t want to use the lilac unicorn ones. And lamps, and a butterfly chair, and magnetic bulletin boards, and, um, wait, is this my house anymore? But I’ve been looking at the Polaroids all day, and so far it still looks familiar, so it’ll prolly be okay.



May I just say, IT IS VERY, VERY EXCITING HAVING ALL THESE PROFESH PHOTOG PEOPLE IN YOUR HOUSE. I believe at one point I thumped on the table and said, “You guys, I know this is work for you, but this is SO GREAT.” They seemed to humor me, but it could also have been because I had just set the table—

(When I’d told Jessica I was making lunch, she’d said, “Oh, but you didn’t have to.” “But that’s what I do,” I said. “The French literature thing is just a fallback.”)

—with a salad of spinach, bresaola, and parm regg; another salad, of chopped endives, walnuts, and blue cheese; a seven-grain loaf; and a raisin-walnut loaf. Oh, and chicken soup. The thing about the chicken soup was that Sarah was feeling illish, so I offered to make her some chicken soup, the words coming out of my mouth before I checked with my head to see if I actually knew how to make chicken soup. But a carton of organic broth, some orzo, an egg, and half a lemon later, I was reluctantly handing her her bowl, and then sending it envious glances of out of the corner of my eye.



All day: moving a throw on the bed up—no, down—no, up a little; shifting a pile of magazines to the right, no, to the left, no, a little— no— yes— there; so much fiddling with the light; so much arranging of flowers. They’d brought in armloads of flowers for the shoot, most of them pink. Oh, yes. Armloads. Pink. And the ranunculus, holey moley: pink and plump and getting plumper by the minute. I cupped a massive one in my hand and said, “These are great. And just so you know, peonies are my favorite flower.” To which Brice said, “I love peonies, too, but these are ranunculus, I know, they’re so huge, aren’t they gorgeous?” “Totally,” I said, “and just so you know, ranunculus are my favorite flower.”



The Shins and Robert Charlebois and the Mosquitoes and Zap Mama and Rilo Kiley and Scissor Sisters and Gino Paoli are all good music for a photo shoot. By the afternoon Tria was telling us about how Stevie Wonder was her first concert. I said mine was Debbie Gibson. David suggested maybe I shouldn’t offer that information so freely.

I have been swanning around the house all day, doing not so much, but I am beat. Maybe it takes more than one imagines, being a professional socialite. This will require more research. Tomorrow the glamour shots of ME.