Sunday. November 18, 2001

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"The wastepaper basket is the writer's best friend."

Isaac B. Singer

I wake up from a dream that included a wake for someone where there was a bar with a bunch of bartenders in lavender camp shirts. There was a lot more to the dream but that's all I can remember now that I'm writing about it. Have to capture dreams quickly before they fly away.

FFP offers a breakfast taco. I'm not hungry, though. He makes himself some migas and toast. I have a couple of cups of coffee and sit at the computer, thinking about yesterday and finishing my journal.

It's Sunday but I have none of the 'end of freedom' feelings I usually get with Sunday. It's nothing special. I'm on vacation another week.

I have a lot of things I need or want to get done, though. I'm still trying to straighten out things, get them organized for the visitors and so that I can enjoy my house more.

I spend some time reading all the Sunday papers (The New York Times and the Statesman), but I also find things in my cabinets like turkey roasting pan (no, I'm not cooking one but I have to heat up my smoked one I ordered), butter dish. Give them a clean up as they haven't been used in a while. Sort through the tupperware and other refrigerator containers, too, wondering why there are always mismatches of lids and containers. The day seemed to just drift away. I do some more reading, work on a project on the computer to make name tags for everyone for Thanksgiving and clear a spot in the storage room for an ice chest. The storage room needs major work but all it gets is a bit of moving things around and a sweep. Before I know it, it is 5PM.

So...it's time to go to an event for Zach Scott theater. We visit with friends, eat catered food and listen to a program about upcoming shows. Lypsinka promises to be especially hilarious and unique.

At one stage during the 'stuff your face with hors d'oeuvres and drink free drinks' part, someone is trying to make conversation in one corner and says to Forrest "Tell something about yourself we wouldn't know."

FFP volunteers that he was in the Longhorn Band. Something innocuous. He doesn't mention being in Whitman's sights or Michael Dell singing happy birthday to him. I bring up Whitman before thinking that he is probably just trying to get out of the conversation unscathed. Or maybe it's the first thing that came to his mind. But it is an interesting conversation starter. Another woman (retired lawyer, she said, although she seemed young...took a package at AT&T turned out) is posed the same question. She talks about growing up on a farm.

At home, I don't feel like doing much although it's still early. We watch a tape of The Simpsons. Maybe it's the two glasses of wine. Maybe it's the persistent congestion. Today I tried to avoid taking too much for it, hoping I'd get back to normal. I'd responded to the drugs with a rebound of my usual good health, but I don't like taking stuff for very many days.

I now have a three-page list that gives all the tasks, arrangements and shopping necessary for the Thanksgiving party.

Sunday is different if you aren't headed back to work.

Staying around the house and sorting through my possessions makes me want less and less of them. I need to pare down, more and more. So...if you were thinking of buying me a Christmas present, don't do it. Just drop me an e-mail. Tell me what you are doing. That's all I want.

JUST TYPING
Preparations.
Can go awry.
So be prepared for different things.