Measured Extravagance

14 December 2003 - 11:44 p.m.

The onion tart went over quite well at last night's dinner, which was quite the feast - another guest brought satisfyingly garlicky hummus, and there was sangria and paella and enchiladas and other good stuff, and the group (a gaggle of UUs, plus the BYM) sat around for hours discussing movies and myths and break-ins and coyote penises. . .

For this morning's Advent-themed service, I composed the following text to accompany the sounding of the bell:

Rejoice! rejoice! Gaude! gaude! Rejoice in the sound of this ancient, beautiful bowl. Rejoice in the music of this beautiful season. Rejoice that we are here today, to listen to each other in community.

For the offertory, the pianist played a lovely "Advent Hymn" by Charles Wesley, and the postlude was a fancy Hal Leonard arrangement of "O Come, O Come Immanuel."

To mull over later: Joseph Epstein and Nathalie Chica's ruminations on (not) being/looking Jewish.

If I were a good girl, I'd be analyzing budgets and salary proposals right now, but I nearly fell asleep during an ab routine this afternoon (first time back at the Y in a month. Points to me for showing up. Noted to self that it's easier to stay in shape than get into shape, and I did it before. . .). Also still not satisfied with anything the brain is coming up with holiday-card wise - might just go with the original plan after all (a single text in simple calligraphy). Time's a gettin' on. . .

At any rate, I'm not a good girl, so the plan is to shuck off my dressy clothes (if you're keeping track, that was indeed three holiday parties in as many days), climb into bed and freewrite on Donne until I drowse off. Which will likely take all of ten minutes. . .but hey, perhaps the effort will perfume my dreams with valedictions and sexy elegies instead of the stuff my subconscious has been serving up lately. (The other night, it insisted that the ingredients for a "Texas cocktail" included vodka-sodden bits of "preserved meat." Yeeurgh.)

One year ago: "Must not fritter time contemplating what kinds of hoppers the elves stir into their nog to keep themselves going the week before 25-minus-1. . ."

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