Monday, December 29, 2003

I drove to my parents’ house Tuesday evening after work. I had planned to bake a ridiculously over-the-top cake on Christmas Eve, so we’d decided I’d get there the day before and be able to spend all day Christmas Eve there.

However, I was fighting off a cold by that point, so we decided to chill out instead. We watched Rush Hour, which we all enjoyed greatly, then I screened Once Upon a Time in China for my Mom, which she appreciated. Two good flicks there.

My sister and her family (husband and four children) came over during the evening on Christmas Eve. The kids were great; high-energy and high-maintenance, but pure and enjoyable. We opened each other’s presents, then they all went home.

Christmas Day was a low-key affair; my parents and I opened the rest of our presents, then we spent the rest of the day playing the board game Reminiscing, which is essentially Trivial Pursuit with historical questions.

On Friday, I felt well enough to attempt the cake. And, to my satisfaction, it turned out well: three layers of cinnamon and ginger spice cake, sandiwching a peppermint white chocolate mousse and a mini chocolate chip white chocolate mousse, smothered in decadent chocolate ganache and covered with dancing gingerbread men. It looke dimpressive, too. Unfortunately, my camera lost its battery charge and my parents were out of batteries, so I couldn’t take a picture.

On Saturday, I left my parents, did some errands, and returned to my apartment. It was a wreck; I’d left it in quite some disarray as my cold was building up and I couldn’t summon the energy to straighten up. So, I rolled up my sleeves and tucked in.

There’s something immensely satisfying about the act of putting something in order. That’s what I felt as I assembled lamps, put out several bags of garbage, tossed laundry into the washing machine, and vacuumed. It felt good.

It felt even better to pop open my laptop and write some more of Seeing Things Invisible. I didn’t even write much, and what I did write I’ll probably never use (the scene I finished just doesn’t further the story much, and I can reference it in other scenes without describing it directly). But I wrote something.

And now, energized, I’m ready to rock.