One Year Saturday, Jan 2 2010

At 3:3o PM on January 2nd, 2009, I was sitting at one of the awkward small tables at Pix Patisserie on SE Division, waiting for a woman I had corresponded with via the Internet to show up so we could see if we related three-dimensionally, rather than just in pixels.  I had no idea what she looked like; one of my oddities in online dating was my distaste for providing or receiving a photograph … flat images of people confuse and actually rather distress me, giving me as they do a sense of something trapped in time, like a fly fixed in amber.  She had said she was tall, and that she would have “rather a lost look” about her … I took this to mean “confused in unfamiliar surroundings” rather than “waiflike.”  For some reason it was difficult to park near Pix that day, and I’d left my car about six blocks away, which wouldn’t have been noteworthy except for the fact that a massive hailstorm started when I was two blocks away from Pix, and I didn’t have an umbrella, so I arrived looking exactly like a drowned rat.  Some people don’t look too bad with wet hair — I’m not in that category.  Luckily it didn’t seem to matter, although I felt more self-conscious than ever when she walked in and just happened to be not only very beautiful, but beautiful as though she had been built exactly to suit my personal taste. 

We weren’t together very long that day — maybe an hour and a half.  In fact, I remember being anxious to get away, because I was so stunned and confused by her that I needed to be alone to find my bearings and figure out “What now?”  But a year later, I am more convinced than ever that the Amazon, as I fondly refer to her here, is about as close to a perfect fit for me as any woman is ever likely to be — from her love of classical music to her mild germophobia, she clicks with me in big ways that make mutual goals possible, and little ways that make daily life easier to share.  Being with her makes a delightful adventure of a trip to the hardware store, and also makes life’s bigger storms seem possible to weather.  Being with her is, and has always been, both deeply familiar and a continual surprise. 

I heard this song first more than fifteen years ago, when the album first came out, and knew that this was the kind of love I wanted.  I was very sure I couldn’t ever have what I wanted, and so I often skipped over the song because I couldn’t stand  to hear it.  It’s hard to listen to even now, because I still can’t quite believe that what I have is real.  So this is for you, my innamorata, and you can just ignore the fact that in the original context, it’s sung to Satan by a woman who cheats on him later.  Because  — context isn’t everything. I hope.

Faust – Feels Like Home

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Post-Christmas Thank You Notes Sunday, Dec 27 2009

Dear Aunt,

Thank you for the thing you sent me in the box.  It is … really remarkable.  I’ve never seen a thing quite like it.  I will find a place to put it, once I figure out what it actually is.  I’m thinking it’s an incense-burner, a candle-holder, or possibly a receptacle for cremains. 

Your baffled nephew,

David

Dear Grandmother,

Thank you for the notepaper.  I can always use supplies for my office; that was very thoughtful.  Thanks also for the two five-dollar bills strangely crumpled up and tossed in amongst the tissue paper in the bag you used for packaging.  I appreciate a gift that is also a treasure hunt.

Your grandson, $10 richer almost by accident,

David

Dr snata cauls

tk ewe 4 ham i liked it.

daria p ohka daat pnts

Dear Mortgage Broker with Whom I Do a Lot of Business,

Thank you for the bottle of sparkling wine.  I was most impressed to see that it had been bottled in Albuquerque, New Mexico.  Even I have heard of the famous 

méthode albuquercquoise, now rivalling even the brightest stars of the Rue Epernay.

Your grateful client,

David

Dear Lady Who Comes to See My Dad,

Thank you for the lap.  I like your lap.  I never want to get out of your lap.  Please be here all the time so I can have your lap.  Please please please. 

Purrs,

Coppelia Q. Norton

Dear Dad,

Thank you for the card and coupon book for car washes.  I sense some passive-aggressive criticism behind this gift, but what the hell.  I do hate to pay to have my car washed, but not as much as I hate to wash it myself.  So yeah.  Thanks.

Your borderline-patricidal son,

David

Dear Santa Claus,

Thanks a lot for the head cold you delivered to me on Christmas, you asshole.  I’ll take the lump of coal next time if I’m on your shit list.

Ungraciously yours,

David

Dear Well-Meaning Client,

Thank you for the plate of slightly-stale Christmas cookies, in twelve inedible varieties. 

Your gastrically distressed realtor,

David

dear satan claws

where is my fissionable material i asked you for it two years ago and you never bring it.  is it because we dont have a chimney only a gas fireplace. you could put it through the mailbox it’s big enough let me know ill watch out for it. hurry im bored this year i got a thing with feathers on a stick does my dad  think i believe its a dead bird what an idiot. sure its fun for a while but hes not fooling me.  also i would like detonator caps please.

hurry

little liu

Dear Amazon,

Thank you very much for the delightful “Pessimist’s Mug” with the handy line to tell me when it is half-empty.  And thank you for making me forget all about my cold this afternoon.  Zowie!

Your smitten and sniffling boyfriend,

David

Dear David’s Friend Russ,

Thank you for those great shelves you gave me for Christmas three years ago, and which I put up in my downstairs bathroom today.  It took me that long to figure out where I wanted to put them.  The bathroom looks a lot better with all the reading material up on the shelves rather than on top of the toilet tank.  Plus I have an incense burner/cremains jar to decorate the shelves with as well.  Anywhoo, thanks! 

Your procrastinating friend,

David

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Three Things Completely Unrelated to Christmas Wednesday, Dec 23 2009

… just in case the holidays are grating on your nerves.

1) I had a strange schedule on Monday that didn’t involve any time for food until around 3 PM.  By that time, I was ready to eat anything.  And I do mean anything.  So when I drove by a local butcher shop and they were grilling sausages (outdoors, in the rain, in the middle of winter — Portland is great!) I stopped and bought one.  On a bun.  And I put a lotta mustard on it.  Then I still had several miles to drive before I was home.  If you’ve never tried to drive while eating a hot mustard-dripping sausage, I recommend you learn from my mistake, and not try it.  Oh sure, I could have pulled over and eaten the damned thing, but for some reason I was determined not to do that.  I managed, through some combined miracle of gravity and lingual dexterity, to keep the mustard off my shirt, hands, and steering wheel, but it became clear that disaster was near.  I had a third of the sausage left; I was at a stop sign; I was still a little punchy from low blood sugar, and I had lost the will to go on.  So I stuffed the rest of it in my mouth all at once, just to get it over with.  This was a really bad idea, for a couple of reasons.  The first reason is that my mouth isn’t all that large, and once I’d performed this feat, I didn’t know what to do next, since moving my jaw was pretty much out of the question.  The second reason was that a pedestrian standing on the corner saw me do this, and so I had to run her down and kill her lest she report me to the Etiquette Death Squad, with whom I have been on shaky ground ever since last Tuesday.

2) Last Tuesday I went out to lunch with my mother and a friend of hers whom I have known for thirty years and who is sort of like an aunt, but better because when she’s weird I don’t have to worry that I share her gene pool.  The restaurant was pretty crowded, and there was some peppy loud 80s pop music playing over the radio.  Lots of chatter.  Lots of noise.  Lots of people.  Which is why I still cannot fathom the reason behind the sudden complete cessation of any talk, sound, or music at the very moment when I informed said friend, in quite a loud voice (so that she could hear me over the ambient noise which COMPLETELY VANISHED RIGHT AT THAT MOMENT)  that a colleague of ours is, in my opinion, a “nutfuck.”

3) I would like to know why, for the past week, my sinuses start to drain at precisely 5:49 AM.  Although I don’t mind getting up at that hour, I would prefer that my getting out of bed not be inspired by a tidal wave of snot.

Those are the least Christmassy things I could think of to write about.   I hope my Yuletide-weary readers are suitably refreshed.

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The Peculiarities of Fate Sunday, Dec 13 2009

Today is the one-year anniversary of an event whose significance I still ponder:  the arrival of the Amazon’s first response to a personal ad I placed as a cynical joke, with the idea that nobody would respond to it, but at least I’d have said exactly what I wanted to say about who I was, and what I was looking for.  I broke every “rule” of personals writing; I said things that were negative, I was too honest, I listed some “must-haves” that seemed rigid and closed-minded; I didn’t post a picture, and I made it fairly clear that I didn’t want to see one in a response.  The headline was:  May I request that you be pleasantly neurotic?

I had been doing the online dating thing for about a year and a half; after breaking up with Mina, and after a great deal of self-reflection, I realized that my greatest liability in finding a compatible partner was my self-consciousness about saying “no, you’re not a good fit for me.”  I had no dating experience at all in high school or college, and the women I’d become involved with in the past had been almost default-dates … we had been thrown together circumstantially, and I had an attitude that if a woman didn’t actively hate me, I should hang on to her.  Oddly enough, I think some of them *did* actively hate me, but because I am a useful person to be around despite my vast catalog of deficiencies and annoyances, they all put up with me for far longer than one would ever imagine, given the continual complaints they had about me, and I about them.  I wasn’t willing to continue doing that, and so I became very clear about what my dealbreakers were, and very clear with myself that I wouldn’t ever “settle” again.  And yet I knew that I still had a tendency to think I didn’t deserve what I wanted, and that I needed practice in truly being myself with the opposite sex, and practice saying “Nice to meet you, but we’re a mismatch.”

I went on a lot of dates and said no.  Two women made it to three dates before I said no, but I said no to all of them.  On several occasions, after the first date things just trickled off into nowhereland, because we both could tell things weren’t working; but a lot of the time, I had to say no.  And it wasn’t easy.  I think it is better to be honest than to give some vague reason why “things just won’t work out” — but I got some arguments, and some insults thrown back at me.  A common one was my being told I was “too uptight” for not wanting to date women who were actively abusing alcohol and regularly smoking weed.  And I was “too judgmental” for choosing not to date women who clearly put their sex/love life ahead of the emotional welfare of their children (my attitude has always been that you have your whole life to get laid, and one chance to raise your kids).  I was “unrealistic” for not wanting to date women who were clearly on the rebound, or hung up on some guy in their work or friend circles who wouldn’t ask them out.  And of course there was always the “Geez, can’t you just give me a chance?”  To which my reply was, inevitably: “Aren’t you embarrassed to be asking me that question?  Why would you want to date someone who wasn’t excited to be dating you?”

I learned from these experiences that I can discern more about someone from a handful of pixels on a screen than anyone would ever believe.  I could tell which ones I’d like, but who wouldn’t be a good fit.  I could tell which ones would be an exercise in an awkward hour in Hell.  I could tell which ones would be great conversationalists but who were essentially irresponsible grownup kids.  After a while I simply became fascinated by the accuracy of my radar, despite the fact that these dates were a complete waste of my time.  I kept thinking, “Oh surely you’ll be wrong this time.”  But I never was.

And so when the Amazon’s email arrived, I puzzled over it.  The radar approved, despite the fact that the writer’s laconic and understated style didn’t give away much about her.  But what I did know about her, instinctively, was that she was worth meeting in person; some people just aren’t text-oriented, and that’s fine.  A couple of brief exchanges established a mutual certainty that we should at least meet for coffee, and then a combination of a snowstorm and the holidays prevented that happening until after the first of the year.

I remember very clearly that I almost didn’t respond back to her email.  My hesitation was not due to any negative feeling about it; rather, I was afraid that my radar was right about her, but that she wouldn’t like me.  I was good at saying “no,”  but not so good, perhaps, at being told “no.”  And I still wonder what was happening on her end of the screen; as far as I know, she was not someone who responded to personals ads, though as many people do, she read them for the entertainment value (we met on Craigslist, the lunatic clearinghouse of the world). What curious little trick of timing caused me to post that particular ad, and her to see it?  And what prompted her to do something uncharacteristic, and respond to it?  I know she had recently returned from a very enjoyable bike racing vacation, which was something she hadn’t been able to enjoy while she was married, so maybe she was just in a “what the hell, it’s my life again now” kind of mood.  She’d recently had a birthday, so perhaps there was also some feeling of “what the hell, time is passing, I might as well try this.” 

If I were a different person, I would attribute all of this to some kind of Larger Intervention or Fate.  This tiny event aligned with that tiny event, and so we met, and the delicate balance of the Universe assisted us.  But you know — what I really think is that Fate doesn’t have a “one chance, and you’re done” policy.  Perhaps the Amazon and I had barely missed each other on a number of prior occasions, but we will never know that.  By a truly bizarre coincidence, ten years ago I dated someone else who worked at the same small custom bike shop where she was working at the time.  My point is that if she hadn’t responded to my ad, or I hadn’t responded to her email, it wouldn’t have made any difference in the long run.  I think we are, in fact, destined to be together, and destiny isn’t so easily discouraged.  But I’m glad she did see my ad, and I’m glad I responded to her — because destiny and time are two different things, and I do hate to waste time.

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O Cat Monday, Dec 7 2009

I.

O Cat

You are my first and best favorite cat whom I love

although I call you a moth-eaten old ratbag.

But of late, O Cat

I find myself troubled

by your fickleness.

When the Amazon is near

I am as piffle upon the wind to you.

But when we are again alone

I am the Velcro, and you  are the sneaker strap from those shoes they started to make as though people no longer knew how to tie laces

or similarly

you are like cling wrap

sticking in all the most illogical and annoying places.

Were you not my first and best favorite cat

I might disdain you, O Cat.

II.

O Cat

You are a cuddlesome spotted teddy bear cougar whom I love

although you have no discernible brain.

But of late, O Cat

I find myself troubled

by your habit of showering with me

and then performing deeds most unspeakable in the same bathtub which we have lately shared.

You are provided with warm places

and choice morsels

therefore I do not understand this lack of respectable conduct.

Were you not the most beautiful animal in the world

I might disdain you, O Cat.

III.

O Cat

You are an aerodynamic levitating tiny cheetah whom I love

although I feel you are a weasel cleverly disguised as  cat.

But of late, O Cat

I find myself troubled

By the nuclear device I am sure you are building in the closet.

You were distracted for a while by the neighbor cat

who came to stare at you through our patio doors.

But that cat comes no more, and your nefariousness runs unchecked.

You have opposable thumbs and I know you have used my credit card.

Were I not afraid of you

I might disdain you, O Cat.

33 Responses »

 

Thanks and Chickens Wednesday, Dec 2 2009

1) I recently made a charitable donation to a local school, and to thank me, they gave me tickets to a holiday event I don’t want to attend, but I kind of have to because it will be good for business.  I really wish they had just skipped thanking me.  I am grateful that the mortgage brokers and escrow officers with whom I work most regularly have figured out that I don’t want to be taken to lunch to be thanked for my business.  They just ignore me now, or sometimes send me a gift certificate.  I have actually said, in a friendly way, “You know, it’s nothing personal, but I’m just shockingly antisocial, and I don’t do lunch.”  After the initial facial twitch, it’s usually OK. 

2) Over the weekend I listed a property that came with a curious quid pro quo … the man who referred the business to me wanted homemade cookies or brownies to thank him for passing the business my way.  This was easy enough to accomplish.  I subsequently found out that actually his favorite thing is lemon meringue pie; if I’d known that, I would have had my mother make one for him … her lemon meringue pie is to die for.  He also likes fried oysters.  His favorite meal is fried oysters and lemon meringue pie.  I couldn’t quite wrap my brain around this.

3) Last week I got a really good deal on a compact folding stairstepper exercise thingydeal … I found it online for a third of its regular price, with free shipping, so I bought it and the Amazon (who is very good at this sort of thing) cheerfully assembled it for me (because I am an idiot when it comes to anything practical).  I have it in my office, and I get up every half an hour or so to walk up a couple minutes’ worth of not-really-stairs.  I don’t know that this really does me any good, but I’m sure it can’t do any harm, either.  I was inspired to buy it because I noticed I was having a lot of trouble getting up the three flights of stairs to my therapist’s office.  However, since I can do a lot more not-really-stairs on this machine than the three flights up to her office, with no ill effect, I’m thinking it’s a psychosomatic phenomenon unlikely to be helped by exercising in my office.  I also frequently forget how to get in the (unlocked) front door of her building, so … yeah.  There’s that.

4) Given my choice, I wouldn’t mind being a vegetarian, for moral reasons.  I’ve tried it several times, once for several years in my middle twenties.  I’m allergic to soy and sensitive to wheat, so the usual meat-substitute stuff doesn’t work for me, as it’s almost all soy or wheat protein.  So I had to do the nuts and legumes route for protein, with some ovo/lacto on a case by case basis.  And oh my God, I was so miserable.  I had horrible stomach pain all the time; it was so bad that three gastroenterologists treated me for parasites, as they couldn’t figure out what else it could possibly be.  I put up with that for three years, and then one day I went off the vegetarian diet, and the minute I put animal protein back in my stomach, the pain vanished overnight.  I came to the conclusion that there is something about the way my body is constructed that doesn’t do well with a vegetarian diet … I’ve tested this theory several times since, and always with the same result; after two or three days as a vegetarian, I am in so much pain that I can’t function.  I have no idea what could possibly cause this quirk, but since it exists, I’ve become as thoughtful a consumer as I can be, with the knowledge that unless I raise and slaughter them myself, there is no such thing as genuinely kind animal farming.  And I also am aware that there is nothing human beings do that don’t oppress or harm some other person or living being … heck, even buying vegetables is probably exploiting some migrant worker who slaves for a wage you wouldn’t pay a dead dog.

However, I am determined not to be a wasteful consumer; if a bird suffers because of me, then by God, I’m going to get everything out of it that I possibly can.  The eleven-dollar free-range chicken that I bought and brined yesterday will serve for four meals, plus it has provided two and a half gallons of homemade broth, which will make at least six more meals.  And I really feel that I didn’t take that chicken for granted.  It was a beautiful little bird, and I told it so as I popped it into its bath of salt water, herbs, and juniper berries.  I told it how delicious it was going to be as I tenderly tucked it into its roasting pan.  I exclaimed at its loveliness when it came out of the oven all golden and crispy.  I told it how impressed I was with it after I carved it and put its carcass into my stockpot.  And after it was reduced to several handfuls of unidentifiable glop, I told it that although I was pretty sure it hadn’t had the best life it could have had, I was grateful for it, and had used it for the highest purpose I possibly could, and as mindfully as I could.  If a pile of bony detritus is capable of any cognition, then I am certain it understood my intent.

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Miscellany Sunday, Nov 22 2009

1) The small weasel cat has taken to licking out my coffee cup on a regular basis … luckily she waits until I’m done with it.  However, she needs to be caffeinated exactly as much as she needs a hole in her precious head.  She is a very strange spotted person to have in the house.

2) The Amazon and I went to the Eugene Symphony last Thursday; it’s not a bad little ensemble … they have a fairly light and crisp sound, which sometimes works and sometimes doesn’t … the best orchestras, of course, are able to change the character of their playing depending upon the piece, but the average ensemble has to make do with a “signature” sound that reflects the personal taste of the conductor.  It’s an enjoyable orchestra overall, though they weren’t quite up to the challenge presented by the showcase piece of the evening, the Saint-Saens Symphony #3 in C minor, colloquially known as the “Organ Symphony.”  Most people know part of this symphony, though they would never in a million years identify it as Saint-Saens.  I had forgotten how long it takes to get to the fourth movement (or the end of the second movement, depending upon whom you ask), which is the really good one; the first three movements are so very … French.  Pleasant enough, but sort of like sitting in the auditory equivalent of a pastel-colored fog machine.  I keep meaning to research what in the world inspired Saint-Saens to write this symphony with the organ in it; despite the fact that he himself was an organist, it seems abundantly clear that he doesn’t have much of an idea of what to do with the organ in the symphony, except that he understands it is capable of making a bloody great noise.  The organ has some brief solo work elsewhere in the symphony, but mostly has chords that blend in with the rest of the music, as though it is hoping not to make a spectacle of itself.  Then comes the fourth movement:

In this movement, the organ has three massive chords, and then, at least to my way of thinking, it majestically blares out:

Here’s a great tune that everyone knows

I plays it once, then off I goes.

It’s a fine tune, but it passes quite fast

Then I sit here for six minutes with my thumb up my ass.

What I really love about the particular YouTube clip I chose is the painting of Saint-Saens, looking virtually indistinguishable from Sigmund Freud.

So, yes.  Overall, a very entertaining evening.

3) When did the Christmas holidays start directly after October?  I remember when I was but a lad, the Christmas season started sometime around December 10th.  That seems about right.

4) I spent part of the evening vacuuming lavender blossoms out of my dryer.  Just don’t ask.

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Brief Updates Friday, Nov 20 2009

1) The piece of flesh that the dermatologist gouged out of my back turned out to be harmless, so now I’m (predictably) annoyed at the inconvenience and expense of the biopsy. 

2) My student finished his paper on time, amazingly.  His dad had to help him a bit more with it once he got the outline back home, but they both acknowledge that he never would have gotten started if he hadn’t seen me first.  I’ll be damned. 

3) I have figured out that I don’t yet need a housemate in order to afford my house, but I will need one by May of 2010 unless business picks up quite a bit, which it is almost certain to do between now and then.  But at least now I have my drop-dead date, as it were, so I can take it off my mind for a little while.

4) Plus I just saved $700 annually on my car insurance by switching from Safeco to Allstate.  I couldn’t believe how much I was being overcharged.  I feel like an idiot for not switching years ago.

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The Best Hour Wednesday, Nov 18 2009

Anyone who knows me is aware that I have developed a psychological and possibly physiological inability to stop working.  I can stop for an hour or so at a time, but I find that I become highly anxious if I don’t have something productive to do.  This is partly to do with my pervasive and sickening fears about the economy, and partly to do with the fact that I associate my personal value with my work, as many men seem to.

At any rate, despite already having two jobs, I frequently scan the local job postings board to see if there is a third or even fourth job I might like to pick up.  Yesterday I saw a very unusual ad, for a “motivational writing coach.”  The ad poster was looking for someone “creative and dynamic” to help his son finish the papers required for his college classes; if he doesn’t turn them in, he’ll fail. The son is very bright, but can’t seem to get going with the papers.  He is completely stuck.  All motivational tools have failed; they can’t think what to do next.  The pay offered was interesting — a certain sum per final draft page the kid produces, plus a bonus if the paper gets better than a C grade.

It seemed to me that basically they were looking for someone to coax the young man out of a paralyzing case of writer’s block.  So I called the dad, and talked to him on the phone for a while … they’d received many calls from out-of-work folks with English and education degrees, but they hadn’t heard from anyone who had any idea how to proceed.  I was quite sure I knew what to do, and suggested that the dad and the kid meet me at my office tonight.  I shook hands with the dad and then told him to go away and get coffee down the street, so the kid — Patrick — would feel that I was working only as his advocate.

An hour later, we had a detailed outline for the paper he needs to write, on a topic he’d never considered … the most basic part of his block was that he had no enthusiasm for what he thought the assigned paper topic was, but after five minutes of casually conversing with him, I suggested a different topic that fit with the requirements of the assignment, and which he was very excited to write about.  We sat together with his source materials, finding some appropriate citations, and mapping out exactly how he was going to proceed, including exact word counts  he needed to write for each section.  I explained to him the system I’d come up with for article/paper writing when I am under pressure, and he wanted to know why they don’t teach this kind of thing in college.  It’s a good question; and I don’t know why.  My system probably wouldn’t work for everyone, but it seemed to be a good fit for him. 

“I feel so relieved,” he said, when we were done.  “I wish the writing class I’m in was teaching me this kind of thing.  Everything just looks a lot better to me now.”

I don’t know whether he’ll write the paper.  I don’t know whether I’ll be paid.  And I don’t care.  That was one of the best working hours I’ve ever spent.  It reminded me of why I went into freelance editing/coaching to begin with, way back when I was doing it more frequently.  I hope he does write the paper, because I want to know what he’ll end up saying.  And maybe his knowing that will be enough to motivate him to get started.

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Order Random No Items in Particular Sunday, Nov 15 2009

1) Much though my more impatient side would like to dismiss Angelina Jolie as a marriage-wrecking media attention whore, I have to admit, the woman can act.  I highly recommend a film called Changeling, in which she gives a remarkably authentic and nuanced performance as a single mother whose only child goes missing in 1920s Los Angeles.  Anyone who is upset or triggered by stories about children in danger should pass on this one, but for those who can tolerate it, it’s a remarkable (and true) story, and very well done. 

2) I am once again considering the possible benefits of renting out part of my house, or possibly selling the house and moving to an apartment, and cutting my housing expenses approximately in half by doing so.  I can’t decide which of these options is more palatable; nor can I decide whether either of these things is actually necessary to do.  I am not well-equipped to deal with the ups and downs of commission-based self-employment, and I have a pervasive fear of Waiting Until It’s Too Late to Do Something.  It seems that many people I know Waited Too Long, and consequently are buried in debt, out of work, and suffering terribly.  I actually feel guilty on a daily basis for owning a home that’s larger than I need.  Now it’s anyone’s guess as to why the hell I’d feel less guilty if I rented part of it out.  Clearly a better way to soothe my conscience would be to offer free space to someone.  But when I contemplate that option, I find I don’t feel guilty enough to make it an acceptable idea. But it would seem like a pleasant detachment from temporal concerns were I to sell the house I don’t need, and move into an apartment.  I wouldn’t like that, but I’d feel less like a gloating plutocrat.  I don’t know whether my moral philosophy or my economic philosophy is the more confused, but I do know that it seems I should do something, and I don’t know what it is.

3) I am pleased to report that the gouge out of my back is healing nicely; I can’t really see why I need to put a Band-Aid over it, but I suppose I’ll continue to follow the instructions even though I don’t see the point of them.  I can actually reach the gouge well enough to slap a bandage on it, which leads me to be impressed with myself.  Evidently I am easily impressed.

4) If you’ve never made a toasted sharp cheddar cheese and onion sandwich, and then enjoyed it with a side of homemade tart cranberry sauce, then you’re really missing out on one of the world’s simplest joys.

 

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