Sunday. November 4, 2001

Central Market park...immobile fowl

"We are all born originals - why is it so many of us die copies?"

Edward Young, poet (1683-1765)

I am snoozing when SuRu calls. FFP is up but not dressed.

We decide to do our own neighborhood and take a walk to Central Market. There is a plethora of toddlers again, all wanting to pat the dogs but being slightly afraid to do it.

One small girl says, "My name is Sasha."

"What's your name?" SuRu asks the little boy with her.

"Carlos."

"Do you speak Spanish?" Sasha asks.

"No, I only know a few words but can't say a sentence," says SuRu.

After we have given the dogs' names, Carlos whispers to his sister. It turns out a girl in his school is named Zoey. Also, that one girl kissed him 'on the lips.' But it wasn't Zoey.

We have kicked a tennis ball we found in an alley almost to Lamar. We pick it up on the way back and kick it or FFP carries it. It ends up in our front flower bed. There is also pecan soccer this time of year and leaves to kick. We say 'hi' to Lucinda who is in her garden with a Mexican helper who never looks up. Lucinda writes books about things like herbs and tequilla and lives in a purple house.

At home, I contemplate my list. And decide to update my WEB page before tackling the mess. Mom calls and declares that some of the clothes that I got her at Melba's are the wrong color. So...another trip! Next time I go there, I'm telling them that it is their job to get the right stuff home with her. Oh, well. It's not cosmic, is it? No. I'm a little short with her, thinking that this shopping with her is too much of a pain. I tell her they are closed on Sundays (true, surely) and that I have to be gone Tuesday and Wednesday. She says maybe Dad will take her and then we go over the directions to get there three times.

"Mason Way?" she asks.

"No, Mesa Drive," I say.

I finally give up later and say that I'll come over there and get her at lunch time tomorrow and we will take the stuff back. Remind me to pay more attention to what they send home with us when we shop! Sigh. Mom deserves to have whatever clothes and stuff she wants. She really does. And to shop for them, too. Which she really likes to do. And she doesn't ask for much. But I hate shopping!

I finally decide at about 1:30 to do something from the list that is real visible and necessary for the company coming in a couple of weeks. Clean out the refrigerator.

It's one of those jobs where you just have to keep at it until you have thrown away about twenty pounds of stuff, removed everything from the interior, washed a small stack of Tupperware that was housing either a science experiment or something merely no longer appetizing. I washed out all the drawers. I wondered why we had not one, not two but three jars of mustard. And that's the standard yellow kind and didn't count a couple of speciality kinds. As I return the survivors to the frig, I wonder if I should throw away anything that is still there when I next clean it out. As if I would remember. Maybe I should put a little sticker on things!

It took me an hour and a half to finish. I stopped briefly to eat. (Eating in the midst of cleaning the frig seems, I know, both unappetizing and unwise. Sort of like going to the grocery store hungry, only worse.)

This job cries out to be undertaken on a regular and ongoing basis and, truthfully, we do that. We usually throw out a few things when unpacking some new groceries or when we are cooking and discover them. Certainly we sometimes actually use up something or eat all of a leftover before its expiration. But sometimes you just have to start at the top left and work your way down and examine everything and empty and clean the thing.

Now, the freezer. That's another matter. One I think I won't attack too soon!

I actually started on the pantry, after giving myself a lengthy break. Then I found myself reading in THE ROOM and catching a bit of Toy Story II on the cable. (I like that movie. Maybe Santa will bring me a DVD of it. Maybe I already have one. No, I don't think so. According to the data base I just have an LD of the first Toy Story.)

We watched the World Series. Ate leftovers for dinner. (The ones that survived the cleaning.) I identified a few things from the pantry that could be discarded. But then I put stuff back in to get it out of the way. Another day.

I read some papers and worked a few crosswords. The game was over and I was still reading, not feeling sleepy. An old episode of ER and one of The Practice later and I was staying up to late. That happens to me sometimes. I just don't get sleepy when I should. It's not like I took a nap or anything. I don't even think I fell asleep in my chair.

I feel some changes coming. Something to get me out of the rut. Or not.

There is something quiet and sad about Sunday. A giving up of freedom to the work week. When I'm retired will this time lose its meaning? Or will it always have that little edge.

I have several (allegedly) creative projects running around in my head. One is a piece to read aloud at the next salon. It would be a little outtake from almost a year of these entries. A Year of Me. Boring? Yes. Another is a novel. It seemed like it was going to just write itself and then the stuff running through my head got too close to the truth and then I wasn't so sure. (Yeah, you are supposed to want to get close to the truth, I know. But it's supposed to be fiction, too.) And I've considered getting back to the Travel Light book. I suddenly thought the other day of the following.

Question: How many watches do you have?
Travel Light Answer: Three or four, all cheap.

Isn't that profound? I'm a complete idiot. I haven't a creative or important thing to say and that's why I just type up everything I eat. We all know that.

My mood isn't the best. Nor the worst. I think I'm stuck in another mode of waiting to get certain things over with. I'm out of the moment. Not a good place to be.

By the way...on the interpersonal relationship front, FFP called me on Thursday, maybe even Friday, yeah I think Friday and asked me who was mad at me. I told him. (Yes, I tell him things I don't tell you.) Or at least I told him my theory about it.

"Oh," he said. That was all. "Why?" he might have said.

Yeah, well, I still don't know if it is true or my imagination and, if true, I don't know the elusive why. I think about it occasionally (I'm the sensitive type that way) and realize that time will tell. It will cure the mad or prove it never existed (maybe without me knowing which happened). But one thing about human nature. That I'm not immune to. Every time I think about it, I get a little more set in my side of the situation. I'm a little less sympathetic to the friend and a little more self-righteous. Is there a lesson here? Maybe. If someone asks you if you are angry with them, you have three choices. Deny it. Say why. Or refuse to do either. That last choice isn't a good one. If you are mad, denying it gives you time to get ready to talk about or forget it without risking the friendship. Talking it out gives the two of you a chance to get all that self-righteous plausible deniability out of the way and stew a while and make up. Refusing to do either drives a wedge. Makes it seem that you don't value the relationship one way or the other. In my opinion. Because every time I think about it, I'm thinking of reasons that I don't need this friendship if it is indeed being withdrawn. About how, yeah, I can get along fine without it. It's a shame this person is so interesting. That's the thing I'll really miss. I like my friends to be interesting.

Meta:
I'm thinking about ceasing to recount every bite of food I eat (OK, I really don't but almost) and every place I go. Just a diatribe a day, you know. The probelm I have with doing that is that how will I remember what I ate or where I went?

JUJUST TYPING
A job.
Done.
Many others cry for attention.
Life is an unending chore.
A list of errands.
That ends with the final job.
Of giving up the life.
And making so many tasks.
Completely unimportant.