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Monday, Dec. 02, 2002 / 6:16 p.m. ~On Writing, and Eating, and Christmas Cards, On Day Off, Number 5~ I love my diary. Is that wrong? Is it wrong to read old entries and think I'm a good writer, when I try? Is it like looking in the mirror and thinking I'm attractive? Is it wrong to like one's self, sometimes? I removed my three boxes of Christmas cards from the bag of wrapping paper and old calendars in the laundry room. The bag I move every time I want to put wet clothes in the dryer. That bag has been sitting there since I bought new calendars in January, at least I think it was January. I remember the evening well.... I went to Media Play and they were all but out of all calendars, then Borders, but the selection sucked, then Barnes and Noble where I stayed for at least an hour, my coat hung over one arm then the other, setting things down on the carpeted floor, kneeling to look at this or that, picking everything up again, wanting every calendar there, picking out Christmas cards on sale, and wrapping paper, everything on sale. Three boxes of cards. All with cats. One is a B. Kliban drawing of Santa, a striped cat hanging by his front paws from his nose. Santa's nose. And Santa is smiling, though he ought to be crying out in pain. Another is an Edward Gorey drawing (you might deduce I enjoy Gorey's drawings, I don't know how, but you might) of a cat, a yellow cat with stripes that aren't just stripes, they say things, like Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year. But the cat has rings around his eyes like he's stressed from Holiday shopping, or from addressing Christmas cards, I can't tell. The third card is black and white cats playing with Christmas ball ornaments, red and green. The ornaments are in motion, as evidenced by the lines indicating movement, as are the paws of the cats. I don't know who the artist is. And I don't know which card to send to which person, but I'm thinking I should send cards soon. Most especially to my uncle. I've been neglecting him, and I'm not sure why. He's one of those people I mean to write to, but never do, like my friend Amy in Maryland. When the sniper was sniping I thought of her, wanted to write, to send email, to call, to see if she was okay, but I never did. Is it really the thought that counts? If so, I'm doing fine. This is the first step, adding the boxes of cards to the piles on the dining table. So now they'll stare me in my face, I'll consider making a list of addressees, and I'll pull out my address book, then I'll find the right pen, then I'll write little notes, and try to be all happy and Holiday-ish, telling Amy to have a Happy Hannukah, and I'll experiment with different spellings, including the one with a "C", Channukah. Or is it Channukkah? I won't know, and I'll have to look it up, like I'm not doing right now, and I'll wonder if I have current photos to enclose, of me, or the girls. And I'll ask my uncle if he is okay, and is he ever moving back to the States (I loved that Lederhoser called us the "excited states" - I may adopt that moniker, if he's okay with that).... I ate the last bocconcini, the last little ball of fresh mozzarella, with one of the last two tomatoes, and I licked the plate clean of the olive oil and spices. I'm thinking about cooking up some linguini, with corn, tomato, maybe bacon and baby portabellas. Or, I've yet to open the smoked salmon, the cream cheese.... Listerine made such a face when I told her. She couldn't imagine the two together? Cream cheese? With salmon? I think she was picturing a salmon fillet, a slab of salmon, fresh off the grill, surrounded by roasted vegetables. I don't think she's had smoked salmon, with cream cheese, or lox, or Nova, on a bagel, with sliced raw onion. I am so thankful that my parents exposed me to every kind of food imaginable when I was growing up. That they let me try escargot when I was only 6 years old, and that I was eating sardines and cocktail onions, and capers, and Beef Stroganoff, and Arroz Con Pollo before I was 10. That I know what Jewish penicillin is, and that I know Calamari is squid, and bocconcini are little balls of fresh mozzarella. Of course I learned most of what I know about food on my own, as an adult, but I'm still glad my parents were so worldly. I don't wish they were still alive, because then I'd have to deal with their deaths all over again, but I do wish I could go back in time, sometimes, and share a meal again, or sit and talk to either of them, or both. When I read about people's parents in their diaries, it seems so foreign, so strange. Wow, you have parents? And they're married? They're alive and they still live together? How very odd. I'm still hungry, and I want to look at my Christmas cards again. I need to get inspired, to do something, anything besides sitting here writing in my journal, or this diary. Writing is good, but there's more, right? It's Day Off Number 5, and I'm treating it like a Saturday. I slept late, watched "Guiding Light" live, in bed, with cats, and cats now sleep, sated for the time being, the TV drones in the living room, the blinds are already closed to the early darkness outside, and my mind is active, I'm writing, reading, thinking so much about everything. And Zsa Zsa is okay, but she needs surgery to repair broken bones in her arms. Poor thing. And Robert Redford says we need all our cars to get 40 mpg, minimum, and we need solar panels on our rooftops, that our rooftops could be considered the next Saudi Arabia. We don't need oil, we must wean ourselves to be truly patriotic. And I love him. There is so much more to say. Cost of the War in Iraq
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