Being But One
Tuesday. Christmas morning, seven-thirty, my brother-in-law's sister's husband the only other person here in the kitchen; he, not speaking English (being French, you understand), having prepared a cup of coffee which is now sitting beside me nodding welcome to the morning. It occurs to me, now that I've stayed at two of my relatives homes, that my lack of decoration at my own apartment may foster a certain lack of awareness of the season, once a pre-teenage time of presents and a screaming need to jump out of bed really fucking early, skip any damned coffee and head for the tree. Which means my brain isn't working yet and I'm babbling nonsense (not altogether a negative for writing), but I've come to understand this to be normal and I'll be conscious and sometimes even clever in no more than another few hours. I wonder if the local Starbucks is open? Who knows, anymore, in this consumer culture; maybe Starbucks is always open like an implant in your brain. But we are beginning to wander into dangerous territory here and I am not in Humbug mode. I am in had a good night's sleep, have hot coffee, it's not raining outside, head in pretty good mode at the moment. Really.
Tomorrow, back to Oakland, the first day of a two day trip. Best to do two days. Better to do three. Two seven hour drives is enough for me anymore, there was a time when..., well, how many times have we heard that? In the old days. In the old days it never rained, the rent was always paid and there was always a drinkable wine in the house. (Hmmm. I've just made my own cup of coffee and it tastes terrible. I wonder if there's something other than this Folgers crystals crap hidden about? Maybe if I add more water.) My brother-in-law and his brother-in-law (who know the secrets of the kitchen) are out looking for a store that's open so they can buy some raw fish for the Old Cat.
The Old Cat puts Ms. Emmy to shame in the throw up department and evidently raw fish is the only thing he's able to keep down. Tuna (as in not in a can) he likes special. Seventeen years old, this cat, tougher than nails in his younger days, now looking pretty creaky as he hobbles about. I'd go out and look for raw fish for him Christmas morning too, I'm afraid. Something to look forward to with Ms. Emmy? The vet warned me against feeding Mr. Wuss tuna when he was starting to go down. Something about the kidneys. Well, what the hell, my own time is coming soon enough too, uncap that last bottle of Rue de Cabernet, Old Cat, let's celebrate before the kids drink it up. Meow? You don't want the Rue de Cabernet? You want the Glenmorangie we polished off at the party Sunday night? Good thinking. Let's see what we can do. There are many things you can be out looking for on a Christmas morning, raw fish being but one.
|
