Read-through

December 8, 2009

That my wallet has been stolen I knew as soon as I reached into the empty pocket. And stolen, on top of it, from the choir robing room at church. It’s funny how much time I used looking for it anyway, not wanting the worst to be the truth. Have been spending the time you spend after such a thing phoning banks and credit card companies and sitting in the soul-destroying DOT office waiting to get a new driver’s license. Any idiot can see the ways in which the DOT can be run more efficiently (don’t have 3 of 5 employees troop off to lunch together when the number of customers waiting has backed up beyond forty; hire a secretary; don’t have the same people answering phones as taking the license info, etc) so it seems clear that it is deliberately and intentionally agonizing, maybe to instill correct fear of state government. There was about $70 in cash in it, and the replacements fees have come to $33, so the cost inches up beyond $100. Not to mention the wallet, which I got in Limerick, and I liked. Against some things there is no protection, except mindfulness and vigilance which, in their way, subtract from the quality of life.

The cassoulet was a success, and I served it last night at first read-through of The Beautiful Johanna, which was also a success. The play is funnier than I thought it was.

All Crawford’s posters and handouts have the wrong dates. That’s $300 down the drain, except I decided to ignore it and use them anyway. The wrong dates are a week too early, which means no one will miss the show by believing them.

It crossed my mind that if I live as long as my dad, I still have thirty years ahead of me. That’s a solid portion of lifetime, a whole lifetime for the righteous few. It was a good thought, for it lead me into the mind of deriving ways of making those quite sufficient years abundant. I will be at the Y first thing in them morning, begging a new membership card because of the thieving of the last one.

Have been buying those 1950's brightly colored Pyrex nesting bowls on Ebay, as part of my program to gain back lost images of my childhood, a quest which the Internet has made almost easy. The little blue one and the big yellow one–the popcorn bowl, back in the day–have arrived. The yellow arrived from Mississippi and the box was infested with bugs.