Monday,
December 16, 2002
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part of the Habana mural
"Celebrity, even the modest sort that comes to writers, is an unhlepful exercise in self-consciousness." John Updike, On Being a Self Forever It is not enough to be h |
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day slips away I really don't want to get up. I don't understand why exactly. But by eight or so I'm up and putting in some laundry. The day goes. I make a thank you note for one of the parties. I do the laundry, I put up dishes. I go for my workout, pick up mail at Dad's. I try to pull strings to make sure he gets home from Germany, I start sorting through some old slides. I'm still scanning pictures for another project. I put together a rebate request (boy you have to jump through hoops for those rebates!) and we work on our application for our new health insurance. I go pick up some film I got developed and drop off another load at the thrift store. I'm their best friend over there lately. I guess. I don't know if they get anything for the stuff. I hope so. And it's time to clean up for our supper club. We go to Habana. It's funky and small with uneven service. But the food is fine and the beers I have (a Negro Modelo and a Cristal from Peru) are nice and the little cup of espresso is excellent. Life is good. We talk about where the next supper club will be. I invite the supper club over next Monday night for a movie 'sleepover.' Knowing my friends they will be home by eleven but we will be playing the movies when they leave. We decide to watch Big Night and one of our company promises something Italian. I promise some popcorn, candy, queso and nachos. Or something. And it's time to get home and read the papers. Because I'm two days behind. I don't get them read, of course. Some, but not all, of Sunday's succumb to my efforts. I doze in the chair, wake up, read some more, work a puzzle. I go to bed too late.
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176
JUST
TYPING