Eclectic

My sister called last night and asked if I'd talked to our parents lately, and I said no, I hadn't talked to them since Thanksgiving, although now that I write that, I remember that I talked to my mom a couple of times either Friday or over the weekend about some Christmas gift issues. And really, that's only been a week.

But I hadn't talked to them this week, and my sister was calling to tell me that my mom has pneumonia. She's at home, on oxygen, and there was apparently a respiratory therapist over at the house working with her.

My sister remarked that this year has just been awful, and I agreed. She said, "Maybe it's the first year that we've had any real indication that we're not immortal." That made me laugh, but yeah, maybe that's it. I've been almost ridiculously healthy for all my life, and then suddenly I turn 50 and have to have major surgery. My parents, likewise, have been healthy -- my mom has had surgery several times, but I can't remember anything major happening to my dad until this year, when he had major surgery twice.

Both of our families have had a lot of problems, many that I don't talk about here, but this year has definitely seemed worse than most. I said something about it to Bob, and he said, well, that's true, but at least nobody died, and I had to agree, yes, I guess that is a positive.

I drank my tea from a Christmas mug this morning, and last night when I got home Bob had made me a Margarita in a Christmas glass. He had made me a wonderful omelette with cheese and bacon and sauteéd fresh mushrooms, with hollandaise sauce and steamed fresh brocolli. Today I have leftovers -- brocolli with hollandaise, a few strips of bacon, and cheese with a couple of Triscuits. I opted not to have eggs again.

I love having an eclectic lunch like that. One day earlier this week Dan came into my office while I was eating lunch, and said, "What have you got there?" I said, well, I had bacon, and spinach dip (leftover from Thanksgiving), cheese and crackers, and celery. He nodded, said he was leaving for lunch, and said, "I'm going to try to duplicate that!" I doubt he had very good luck . . .

This morning I brought in a Christmas stocking (topped with an elf head) to hang in my window in my office; I put a wreath on the door yesterday, and a little tree on my desk. I brought out a snowglobe that Dave gave me last year, and hung a stuffed felt Santa on the wall. I love decorating for Christmas!

I said the other day that "it's the small things," and really, it is. Having my tea in a Christmas mug delights me. I'm burning a candy cane (peppermint) scented candle--it's a toss-up whether I love peppermint or pine scents more at Christmas--and listening to Christmas music on the iPod. It really doesn't get any better than that.

On the iPod, I'm listening to The Stupidest Angel, which is the latest from Christopher Moore. I run kind of hot and cold with his stuff. Some of it I've absolutely loved, but others have been a struggle to get through. This one is kind of a struggle, but I'm sticking with it, listening at the gym while I walk on the treadmill.

In the car, I'm listening to The DaVinci Code. I try never to criticize books, but man, this one is so bad. I can't honestly imagine how it got to be such a huge bestseller. I read Angels and Demons last summer, and was kind of waiting for The DaVinci Code to come out in paperback, but I decided to go ahead and get it from Audible.

While I was reading Angels and Demons, I kept reading passages out of it to Bob, incredulous at the inanity of the language. Everyone was always "sensing" something or other -- sensing that someone was thinking of doing something, or sensing that something was going to happen, etc. They're doing that again in this book, sensing everything, and I've noticed in this one (I can't remember if it was true of the other book or not) that everyone is always bewildered, stunned, confused, flabbergasted, shocked, etc. The main character is a college professor, and he's either confused, bewildered, befuddled or something of the sort in every other paragraph. Hard to imagine how he would be able to tie his own shoes, let alone travel around Europe alone giving lectures.

I don't suppose it's giving anything away to say that as the book opens, a museum curator has just been gut-shot. I don't remember the exact phrase, but he's "familiar with war" or something like that, and thus knows that he has about fifteen minutes before he will die, so he spends his remaining time crawling around the Louvre leaving anagramatic clues on artwork as to the identity of his murderer.

It's just ridiculous. I don't have any trouble with convoluted plots, and I can suspend my disbelief with no problem at all -- witness some of my favorite books involving elves, angels, werewolves, etc. (And The Stupidest Angel, which involves not only an angel, but fruit bats, a former warrior princess, a dope-smoking constable, and Christmas zombies.) But there's a big difference between an unbelievable plot and bad writing, and I can easily read/listen to something with an unbelievable plot and still enjoy it. But this book is the kind that makes me want to throw it against the wall every other sentence.

But I'll stick with it. After all, I have to know what happens.