I don't go out much

Today, both my mother and my uncle suggested arts events I ought to see. This was especially amusing, as I had just finished telling my uncle how angry I was that my mother wouldn't just accept the fact that I don't make plans in advance and I don't go out much, weekday or weekend.

Given the choice of getting rest, planning ahead for school, relaxing or hauling myself across boroughs or neighborhoods for a momentary escape, the latter rarely wins. I read a lot. When not at work, I stay home. My days are long. It's nice to get in extra time at home, when I can.

A Thanksgiving Story

Early this afternoon, I left my apartment to pick up some bread and litter, the two staples of my household. Just a few feet away from me, there stood a religious Jewish woman in her fifties, stylish blonde wig and dazzlingly multi-colored dress garneshing her heavyset frame. The door was open to her black sedan and diagnonally across from it was her husband, white shirt and foamy beard tinged by his nervous hand. "What did you want me to do?," he said. I looked around for a minute, and about ten feet away was a Chinese man in his thirties, his bangs fashionably gelled upward which now, coincidentally, matched his confused stare at the clamshell-like dent in his silver sedan. There wasn't really anger or humor. Just puzzlement, to quote The King and I. "Did you take the information?" said the husband. "No. When the police come, they'll take it." They stood about five feet away from each other, and you could see his heels beginning to lift in reverse. "I knew I shouldn't have called you," she said offhandedly. He walked backwards, stopped, then turned around and walked off. She and the Chinese man just held on to their car doors, staring outward, as if they knew something had happened, but had forgotten what.

.............
As anyone unfortunate enough to know me closely knows, this is my least favorite time of the year. All sorts of horrible things have happened to me on this holiday, though one year, Queequeg, my godson-cat, was re-born in the ER of the Animal Medical Center. That was supposed to have re-christened the holiday for me, but I can never shed the fears that come with this section of the calendar. I have much to be thankful for, not the least of whom I just scolded for trying to eat an old piece of hard food off of the floor. Being the faithful son that Larry is, he did not. Bernie hovers on the corner of the bed and I know Larry is hinting that he would like to be brought up here, so I will. It should be a quiet day for us, and hopefully one of inner peace, at least for them -- and all of you who might be reading this.

For Nov 23, 2009

I miss you.

Karen Beth Hunter, Nov 23, 1951 - Sept 2, 2005

Very bad.

I've got a lot of good people behind me, so maybe I shouldn't say bad. How about, "very different."

Not really much to say.

My students said that Cleopatra's biography was "hot." Since this week's essay is about her, I hope that means they'll enjoy it.