Every time I mention the plot of something I've seen to my mother, she archly remarks that I could be writing a great deal if I were didn't watch so many movies. This infuriates me, largely because it is infuriating. I also think it's false. However, tonight, as I was sitting [I was going to say "quietly" which I suppose is true in that I was very quiet, but it also suggests an atmosphere of quiet, which is decidedly not the case. The Upstairs Baby is crashing around up there in an unprecedented manner, which is not to say that I have not been expecting and dreading it. My most indulgent fantasy is not the one in which I find lasting love; it is the one in which no one lives above me. However, let us not let the Upstairs Baby thwart us in the middle of a perfectly good epiphany.]
Ahem. I was sitting here quietly, reading a book, when I felt an actual impulse to get up and write something. So, perhaps giving my brain a chance not to be stuffed with sitcoms and similar is to give it the opportunity to...wait. There's a term for it. Think. That's it. This is not to say that every time I read a book I feel like leaping up and writing one. On the contrary. Usually, I feel like doing nothing more extraordinary than continuing to read the book. However, I do notice a difference in reading brain versus watching brain. There is an expansiveness in the former that can bode nothing but good. Books. I recommend them.
Last week, the Festival of Wellness was in full swing and I was out and about every night save one. As a result, I have been rather exhausted and have gone to bed at 9:30pm the last two nights, but, just for fun, let's pretend I'm heartier than that. On the whole, I had a lovely time, though there were a couple of downsides. For one, my mother and I had to face the hard fact that we really don't care for authentic Indian food. We are regretful, but find that it is simply too spicy. Way too spicy. We have not yet reached the point where we have said this out loud to others, but there it is. If you have some Americanized chicken tikka masala, I'll happily join you. Otherwise, I'll just have a side of naan. Plain naan. (Which, now that I think about it, was also not available on the menu.) Another not so great thing, is that I had a convivial dinner with a man who fancied me, but actually, based on more recent evidence, I guess didn't? This has really only just occurred to me. Best change the subject.
The very best thing I did was attend Sunday Suppers. By merely buying a ticket, I was given access to a dinner party in a nearby garage. Indeed. A long table with a white cloth and flower arrangements, a delicious five-course meal, and 29 other people whom I had never met. In a garage. (Thank God. Dinners are usually outside, I believe, but it's winter. Even in California.) For me, that made for a unique Sunday. I was the only person to attend alone, but most other diners had the chance to meet 26-28 lovely new people, so it was an adventure for us all. I had the great good fortune to sit in immediate proximity to people I liked enormously. Plus, there was no avocado or mayonnaise involved with the meal. A triumph all around. Did I mention it was delicious? It was delicious. And the people were charming? They were charming.
I loved it.
And now, if you'll excuse me, I need to go roll a small neighbor in bubble wrap.
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