My Sunday Debriefing

When you work for the government, there are holidays galore. You name the holiday, and we've got it to take. I am not complaining. Contrary to the opinion of many a consumer, I work hard when I am at my job, and it is one where our customers, let me call them that, the consumers and various professionals have no compunction about being confrontative or manipulative from the get-go. That alone can be wearing upon a middle aged public servant, more than it was upon me as a young go getting public servant, merely by virtue, perhaps of the repetition. So days off I can always use, to recoup, to damp the anger that gets fueled by being required to take abuse without equal response at least at that moment (Thus I do, again, apologize to that Verizon operator who got a misdirected bit of the buildup--I think her name was Jasmine).

On Thursday, there was Lincoln's birthday and tomorrow is the melded Presidents' Day, and it seemed that with one day of vacation, I could make it into a five day hiatus. And so, I did it. I had all sorts of plans in mind, none of them urgent, some of them I accomplished.

I suppose "vacation" began on Wednesday night. Three of us have had a round robin on our birthdays for some years, picking a Zagat rated restaurant, and two taking the one out. We have hit some wonderful places over the years, Geoffrey's in Malibu, Republic in LA, Lucques, Shutters' restaurant on the beach in Santa Monica, Ivy at the Shore (really the only one that was horrible, although I was inebriated and it worked might fine for me), places that came and went, but always a good time had by all. This time we went to Dal Rae, which was perhaps one of the best environments and even better food, and was limited only by one drawback---it is in Pico Rivera, not far from both huge strip malls and railroad tracks and warehouses.

Sleeping in is perhaps my favorite of a day off, and so I did, to well past 10 a.m. the next day. After attending daily Mass, something which I particularly enjoy because I so rarely get to do it, I went to Home Depot and bought indoor and outdoor paint, for two ongoing projects. I wrote a letter to a young recruit at Parris Island, South Carolina over which I had been procrastinating, for no particular reason. And then, somehow my mind goes blank for the activities of the rest of the day. I may have been lolly gagging, probably was. I meant to do some oil painting. I have had a sketch of two blown palm trees sitting about since August and a trip to Hawaii, but haven't put brush to canvas, despite many internal promises.

Friday. It rained. Heavy. And the chill was enough to remind me what a wimp I had become since I moved to California. I couldn't take more than a day or two of this wind and wet. I surely could not take what people navigate in the east with nary a thought. A second day of daily Mass. Got the stamps for the letter to North Carolina, picked up a belated birthday card for another friend, and had lunch at Dupar's reading the TV Guide and the Enquirer for my intellectual enhancement In the evening I dined at a friend's, treated not only to lovely conversation and tales of days in the fashion industry, but also to a gift of several items of clothing and shoes from a woman who knows the business and who somehow managed to remind me that even at my age, perhaps because she herself is twenty plus years older, it isn't all over, and maybe I am more attractive than I have ever given myself credit for, if only I did not run from the possibility. I had this feeling, too, that in some way I was being looked out for by my now both gone parents, although the exact direction this will take remains to be seen.

It does seem that in a way, since dad died, I have been adopted a bit by a few people, and I can't say that I don't like it.

Saturday was a drive to Long Beach for my usual color and cut, accompanied by blue sky and three dimensional white cotton clouds and a bright sun that only slightly warmed things up, a delightful rummaging and purchasing at that gourmet's delight Bristol Farm, in Beverly Hills, and then a full screen view of that never old oldie, "The Philadelphia Story" at the Alex in Glendale. Stewart, Grant, Hepburn. Seventy years later, and they are as good as ever, young, and bright, and witty. They were as yar as the sailing True Love that bound C.K. Dexter Haven and Tracy Lord.

Sunday. The day of rest. No, really.

Mass, the third of the week and I am glad. I needed the rest of spirit as well as the rest of body. And breakfast with my church mates at the Silver Spoon that lasted well into the late afternoon. I refiled my shirts and pants as the day waned. And here I am making long overdue entries in my two blogs, with still a whole day off tomorrow, during which I intend to do some more painting at my dad's apartment to the sounds of my reloaded I-Pod.

And in between I will continue my rereading of the life of Gerard Manley Hopkins, Jesuit and posthumously famous poet, who will have an entry of his own shortly.

And the picture above? Clearly, it is not me. 1. I am not a him and 2. I am not at the shore. But the hammock, that says it all!