Random musings on a writer's life & times, with occasional input from acquaintances
Sunday, November 28, 2004
It’s the Sunday Seven. Deal with it.
1) What are you wearing?
Brown t-shirt that says across the front in white and orange letters “Pasadena Diamond Killers, ‘62 All-City League Champs.” (Yes, yes, I know these pseudo-retro shirts from the Old Coast Guard store are tacky, but this one is BROWN; how many BROWN t-shirts have you ever seen? I couldn’t resist.) Blue Levi’s, white Nike sox, sweatboots. My new glasses, which I got unbent at the optometrist’s office after that watching-TV-football-with-my-eyes-closed misadventure.
2) What are you reading?
“Little Children,” a novel by Tom Perrotta, who also wrote “Election” and “Joe College,” among other things. (Okay, I’ll admit it. The “other things” include “The Wishbones,” the novel on which Adam Sandler’s movie “The Wedding Singer” was based.)
3) What’s for dinner?
Turkey soup. On the weekend after Thanksgiving, how could it be otherwise?
4) What’s the best thing that happened this week?
We held a family Thanksgiving blow-out in Bend, and a fine time was had by all, except Cookie Jean, who first had to cook for twenty-three days straight and then experienced an upset stomach Thanksgiving night that rousted her from bed at least twice. (Notice that I say nothing about how much pumpkin ice cream pie she ate before the belly pains started. Just call me Mr. Discreet.)
5) What’s bugging you?
We returned from Bend to find no heat in our Portland home. I paid a gazillion dollars for a new gas furnace a couple of months ago, and the workmen who installed it said they broke some kind of switch in the process. They claimed they had made a “temporary fix” and would return to replace the discombobulated part. They never came back. Cookie Jean telephoned the company once, and I called a second time. On both occasions, company personnel said someone would call back to arrange a repair time. No one ever called. So when we realized this morning the temperature in the house was 61 degrees and diving, I grabbed the phone and started making noises. LOUD noises. I yelled at the first person who answered the company’s emergency number, and she turned out to be an answering service clerk. I yelled at the guy who called back, and he promised to arrive in 45 minutes to restore the heat. The man arrived while I was upstairs in my office (thank god, as it turns out). He poked around a bit and determined the furnace had been turned off. “Oh, yeah,” said foster son Jesse, freshly out of bed. “Joe shut that off yesterday.” Joe, my eldest son, drove back from Bend ahead of Cookie Jean and me. I guess he was hot when he got home. So I yelled at two people needlessly. Is my face red, or what? The repairman said he would be back next week to fix the switch, though. That’s nice.
6) Where in the world is Carmen San Diego?
Pumpkintown, South Carolina
7) What’s it all about, Dave?
As said John Fowles, author of “The Collector,” “The French Lieutenant’s Woman” and other novels:
"Passion destroys passion; we want what puts an end to wanting what we want."