I'm feeling a trifle melancholy. I suppose I could write something. But what? About what?
K has gone to bed early. He fell asleep midst of The Ladykillers, a British caper movie starring Alec Guinness, a young Peter Sellars (he looked about 20!), and some other British character actors. It was comic, I suppose. Guinness's fake teeth looked terribly fake, distending his upper lip. Not that it was a bad movie. K falls asleep to most of the movies I bring home. But it did seem longer than its hour & a half running time. I wanted to go to a matinee, Pedro Almodovar's latest maybe or The Two Towers. We went to brunch at our usual brunch place, Chester's. The break in the rain gave sun to their deck. The rain had cleaned the air so the Golden Gate was sharp in the distance. We got home to a message on the machine: seems Dolores, the library general services supervisor, was wondering where I was. I'd entirely forgotten I was to work today. Sunday work rotates among the staff. Though I'd written it on the calendar and reminded myself and everything, well, nothing worked, and I clean forgot. K whisked me downtown in the Jeep, so I missed an hour of work. I don't know if I'm being written up. Perhaps so. Then I get so rusty at working with the public. All day I plug away at my little desk in the Order Dept, how'm I to remember whether there's a bathroom on the first floor or how many videos one is allowed? I do like it. Checking books out to people, helping someone figure out if she's saved her work on the word processor. But it takes me awhile to get up to speed. I 'spect Dolores will look a little less kindly on my transferring to her dept if at some point in the future there's an attractive opening. Ah well.
After Christmas dinner at my mother's place in Sebastopol we walked up and down the block viewing the art. There's an artist who's moved into a house down her street. He assembles goofy characters out of scrap metal. And many of the neighbors have elected to provide space in their front yards for hosting these creatures. Not everyone is enamored. Mom goes on about how ugly they are. Sometimes good-humoredly, sometimes irritated. She's not the one, however, who's written to the City Council to complain. It's not a busy street so there's not much trouble when a car slows to view. We passed another group walking the neighborhood for the same purpose.
There's still a counter filled with dirty dishes. With Kent gone to bed the banging of kettles and crashing silverware is too loud. So the dishes will have to wait again. I ought to wash out the cats' litter boxes. I'm not going to do it tonight. The crystals we've been using last surprisingly long, but nothing keeps working forever. It's late, isn't it? 11:30ish. I was thinking as well of taking dog for a late night stroll, just around the block. But. Oh. Doesn't look like that'll happen either. Maybe this writing is making me sleepy enough slip safely beneath the covers and into dreamland. Maybe.