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Thursday June 28, 2001
"J'aime mieux être homme à paradoxes qu'homme à préjugés." Jean-Jacques Rosseau , Emile ou de l'education
bed time
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déja vu I was up early in the motel room. I made coffee in the complimentary pot. I checked e-mail and did a little work and posted my journal. I listened to tributes to Jack Lemmon on TV and thought of Some Like it Hot and Days of Wine and Roses. We had a meeting. Some of the material was as familiar as an old shoe and some was new. We seem to run up to the same problems over and over again. But sometimes it seems that we are solving them in a better way. Sometimes not. I took careful notes of people to contact. I do that on days when I feel like I will be working here for a long time more. The moderator asked everyone how long they'd worked for the company. "Thirteen years, fourteen years, seven years, twelve years, four months, four months, four years, etc." A surprisingly long time on most of us. At lunch I had a meeting so I gulped some of the cheese and crackers from last night that I'd stashed in the company fridge. And I drank a soda. On the way out to drive home, I grabbed a coke and stuck it in the bag with the remaining crackers and cheese. I stopped for gas. In Houston they seem to be into 'pay inside' these days. Remind me to buy gas in La Grange where you can still pay the pump. I fish last night's cookies out of my suitcase and start clicking off the miles until home. I'm listening to a Gore Vidal novel on tape in which he appears, talking to his fictional characters. At the end, he appears and I believe he reads that part. The Golden Age, I think it's called. I stop at that town that is a wide place in the road between Columbus and La Grange. I get a Starbucks coffee drink. Not because I'm the least bit hungry or thirsty after the soda and the cheese and crackers and the cookies. No, just for something to do. I switch to tapes of Ken Burns' Jazz book (part of the film, book, CD deluge). There isn't much music on it. But it is entertaining. I get home around 8:30. FFP and I walk up to Fonda. We walk by the rock and roll house and music blares out to entertain the people on the makeshift porch. A guy gives a friendly wave. A woman with a small baby in a snuggy walks by us to the corner with a 'For Sale by Owner' sign in her hands. We talk to the owner and manager of Fonda in the bar. Then we sit down and have wine and ceviche. FFP has a bowl of tortilla soup. We talk to a few people we know and some of the staff. On the way home, we walk by our old house. "Old house...Claire," FFP says, "She got a good deal on that house." It's been twenty-four years almost since we sold that house. He always says that. I did nothing constructive. I sat and read a The New Yorker and a couple of other things and drank Jack Daniels. Chalow has an ultrasound tomorrow. She wasn't allowed to eat tonight. After midnight she can't have anything to drink. At five until midnight I let her out, offer her water (she refuses) and take away the bowl. She crawls into bed with her dad and flops down on her third. I'm afraid she's sick. Some test for liver function is dangerously high. The expensive pills aren't working. The $195 test may show something. She is a little slow but she still scampers a bit. I hope she's OK.
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