14 November 2002
In case anybody was sitting around thinking, "I wonder if it's fun to be ill in the bathroom of a public place, like, for example, Target?", I am here for you. I can leap in and tell you: no! It is not! No fun at all, in fact! So you don't have to go do it.
Aren't you glad I was here?
I have officially classified my good mood as "relentless," however, as this was not enough to dampen it. Well, enough to dampen it, but not enough to kill it. Very strange. And now this morning I'm snozzly and a bit fuzzy-headed, but still in a good mood. Well, I suppose I should take it while I can get it.
I dreamed about French toast last night. I had three different dreams that I can recall, and they all featured French toast. It probably means something quite Freudian about my mother, or else something quite Jungian about transformations. I don't know. I didn't have French toast yesterday, and I won't have French toast today if I can help it. (I like French toast. Just not today.)
So Timprov and I wandered around doing necessary errands for awhile yesterday, and I read some more of Salt and worked some more on the book. Yep. The book. I know it shocks you all, that I was working on it, but it's true.
Timprov brought his mom's Liz Phair CD back with him, because Bobbie didn't like it at all at all. So now I have little Phair nuggets studded in my brain, like raisins in a fruitcake, or maybe like citron in a fruitcake, only I like raisins much better than citron. I do indeed want to be cool, tall, vulnerable, and luscious, but it doesn't matter how I work on the other three, it's not going to happen unless we move to East Asia somewhere, and fast, before nutrition keeps improving and helping those little East Asian girls get to be taller than me. So I should just stick with singing "Uncle Alvarez" instead, because I'm fond of it, only it keeps getting tangled up with the Ben Folds song about Uncle Walter. Which is okay, too, I guess.
I have been gifted with a good mood today, but not with a particular lot of focus. Which is all right, for me. For you all, I'm not so sure.
I'm a little alarmed that the nonfiction book I'm contracted to write is called The Chinese Americans. Since, you know, the last book I was contracted to write was called The Chinese Americans. I'm going to have to indicate series on my bibliography, because the last series was "We Came To America" and this one is "The Changing Face of America." Different parameters, different age range, different book...same title. Poor future bibliographers.
Turns out Mark's brother Dan will be here for Thanksgiving. So we're trying to figure out meal and airport timing. Not to mention what we're doing with him while he's out here, where we're taking him, what we're feeding him, etc. I've got a List, so it should be all right. But some of the stuff won't be List stuff, and that'll be okay, too. Redwoods....
I don't think I mentioned yesterday that Scott is Satan. True story. He wrote to me as I was leaving for the airport on Tuesday, talking about how he had chocolate-covered peanuts. I had no chocolate-covered peanuts. I suddenly had an urge for them, and there was no time before I needed to go to the airport. But I triumphed; we got some yesterday, and some chocolate-covered almonds. So there. Sew buttons on your underwear.
Actually, you don't have to sew buttons on your underwear on my account. It's just something my mom says.
It's my uncle Bill's birthday. Yay, Uncle Bill!
I'm going to call my grandma now.
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