Austin, TEXAS, December 9, 2005 — What is it that drives us to be recognized? To win. To accomplish something? I mean, I managed to retire at age fifty-four years and about forty days and it is three and a half years later and I haven't done a lick of honest work for pay or managed my finances very well and still I'm living the good life, able to pay my bills, give away a little money. I have fun, I really do. I do what I want except when I'm torturing myself to clean out closets or feeling like I should be doing something else. The long string of pixels that is this journal is my life's work. I secretly think that one day it will be recognized as creative and as an important piece of the twenty-first century lore. Like Samuel Pepys in the seventeeth. I mean, today (in 1661 that is) he

says "Thence he and I to Mr. Walpole, my attorney, whom I never saw before, and we all to an alehouse hard by, and there we talked of our business, and he put me into great hopes, but he is but a young man, and so I do not depend so much upon his encouragement." Hey, I went to my lawyer the other day, too. I wrote it down.

Apparently, there is a lot of competition out there, though, to be the Sam Pepys of the 21st Century. There are over two hundred people who entered one portal, Jette and Chip's Holidailies. (That's counting the Holidailies at Home entries.) There are over a hundred people registered in the Austin Stories portal.

So there is a certain amount of competition in this online realm, huh? At Holidailies they have a panel who selects 'Best of Holidailies Entries.' So...you would think that maybe some of us are not only pledging to write something, but sort of vying to be read, appreciated, recognized. Make the best of list. In times past I didn't promote my journal. I guess my sad little promotions (joining portals) are an attempt to get recognition for the only dang thing I ever get done! So, now, what could I possibly say that would attract that "distinguished readers panel?" I don't know. But I'm thinking that recounting cleaning out closets and scattering bendable posable Santas around my house isn't it! (I was considering decorating the house today and that's most of my idea of decoration. Of course, I didn't get any further than bringing the box inside. I am incredibly sad.)

Forrest has more important things to think about. The Nutcracker opens tonight. He is excited about wrangling eleven different VIPs through the role of Mother Ginger over the next couple of weeks. He is also writing a column (or more). I thought that, before I managed to get up and not go back to bed (there was a trip to let the dog out and to go to the bathroom myself) that my husband fed the dog and gave her pills, worked out and had two breakfasts. (Dry cereal before and eggs and toast after.) I couldn't be sure he worked out because I didn't hear him leave or come back. But I was thinking that he probably did. Before I'd had my first cup of coffee he was in the shower getting ready for his day. At nine-thirty I was thinking of having a second cup of coffee while pondering diaries of the 17th vs. the 21st centuries and our human nature to compete. I was thinking how every year when I see the Austin Chronicle advertising their short story contest that I'm tempted to write a story and see if I can win. I think I might have entered once, I'm not sure. I did work on the story. This thought sent me off looking at computer files until I found the story. I thought, "Maybe I'll post it on my WEB site." After I plugged it into a WEB page I found all these typos. "I hope I didn't enter the contest with the story in this shape," I thought. If I did, it's pretty clear why I didn't win. Other than it not being that great a story, you know. So I edited it. Producing more typos no doubt because when I proof, I'm tempted to insert and rearrnange things. I thought, well, I will edit it again (introducing different typos) and post it. Why not? I'm not competing for anything here. Not really. I'm trying to write. I have something to say. Don't I?

I got that second cup of coffee, put the sheets in the dryer and FFP gave me something real to do: proofread a column he's writing. It will see newsprint, it's more real. Not that I take my forays into his column space any more seriously than typing to you here. I really don't. I told him, "I need to get to the club soon," as I was finishing up the proofing.

"Me, too."

"I thought you already went," I say.

"No. I was working on this column. I wanted to get it to her so she could look at it over the weekend." He usually runs the columns by the people he's writing about for fact checking and such.

Hmmm, I thought. But he took a shower didn't he? I thought so. I'm confused. I didn't feel so bad then, though. I didn't feel like he'd beaten me in the competition to work out. (He did get in a workout yesterday before they closed the club. Because I was sitting in front of my computer being useless.)

I'm not really competing with my own husband at retirement, am I? If I am, I'm out of luck. I'll never do more chores, get more things published, do more charity work, get to the gym more often. I could beat him at tennis, though. Because he doesn't play. Come to think of it, I feel competitive with older ladies who have macular degeneration or arthritis, proud to beat them when they can't see the ball or it hurts to run for it. I am pathetic. Everyone wants to beat someone, I guess. But really.

I finally got to the gym where, I guess, I only compete with myself. With what I have done before. I got interested in reading some stuff in the newspaper, like an article about the Nobel acceptance speech Harold Pinter made. I ended up on the bike for an hour. I tried to do some assisted chin ups with lots of assistance. I'm a wimp. I did some ab and lower back exercises and went home. I had fish (tilapia FFP cooked with a wasabi soy sauce) and salad and Bloody Mary mix, no vodka.

I worked on cleaning up the bed, deciding to cram the comforter into the washer, too. I was confident this would work because I'd done it before. I got the sheets and pillow cases back on and the half-made bed sat there waiting for the comforter to get dry which means running the dryer, taking it out and finding wet spots and putting it back in a few times. Yes, I can make cleaning up the bed hard. But in this house there isn't really anyone to compete with about it. It's one of the jobs I have sort of take on for myself.

I decided to go to Costco. During the Christmas season this is probably a terrible idea but we were out of that magic never-molding shredded cheese they have. I want another five pound sack of that wonderful cheddar/jack mixture for my nachos, salads and such. And I'd talked to my dad and he wanted me to work on some of his Christmas gifts and I thought I might get some of the stuff there. I really wonder about this idea when I arrive and there is a line of about a dozen cars trying to get out of the place. It's pretty crowded but I manage to buy some Christmas gifts (a calendar, some LED lights that work on a crank, some champagne, a magazine tote I'm going to use as a container for a gift I'm putting together for Dad to give), my magic cheese, trash bags, dishwashing soap, three kinds of cereal because I can't decide, Ensure for my in-laws, dryer sheets, a huge filet of fresh salmon and my Christmas present to myself: a fifteen can case of tennis balls. FFP called and wanted me to look for a couple of other things but I was already in line and the crowding was getting ugly. Nothing was needed that desperately. I got out of there. Competing to line up at the Costco door and navigate through traffic is not my idea of fun.

When I got home from Costco and got things put away I talked to a friend and we decided to see a movie. We picked Walk the Line and decided to get there about a half hour before the show. I was busy looking through a cookbook and thinking about a benefit we are doing in February when she honked. She was early. Good thing, though, because we needed the time to get good seats and to settle in and order a Guinness (me), root beer (her) and salads and pizza. They showed old clips of the real Johnny Cash before the movie including one where he sang with Bob Dylan and one with Roy Orbison (singing Pretty Woman).

We both liked the movie. My friend thought it drug a little and we both were bothered by Joaquin's sloping shoulders. But not by the scar on his lip. I thought he generally did a good job with the role. Reese Witherspoon did a good job, too, but she was way more beautiful than June Carter ever dreamed of being.

After thinking about it a lot today I concluded that I'm not really that competitive. Not about a lot of things. In May our names appeared in this list of Austinites dubbed by our esteemed local rag as the 'Fortunate 500.' Ignoring the fact that we have nothing to do with law (we think they confused Forrest with some other Forrests in town who are lawyers!), I guess we are certainly fortunate. But I'm sure I don't care if my name ever appears in this list again. I can't think of anything, really, that I'd like to win. Except for, you know, the MegaMillions Lottery (must buy ticket soon!) and the Best of Holidailies list.