Wednesday, Dec. 18, 2002 - 5:33 p.m.

12:15 p.m. The flood of emotion while speaking on the telephone with my sister, Pixie, can only be described as the feeling you get, after a 20 year absence, of driving past your elementary school, where you first learned your ABC�s, into your childhood neighborhood, where you first learned to ride a two-wheeler, up into the driveway of the house you were lovingly raised only to find it victim to a hideously devastating fire that has charred, if not claimed, every last 2x4, roof shingle and memory.

12:20 p.m. It�s not enough that I must endure every significant and insignificant detail surrounding her pre-menopausal condition and subsequent mental state working overtime to confront, oppose and defy said condition with the hindrance of being so near the front of the queue of her own mortality but I must also brave the concept that she will be cooking Christmas Eve dinner.

12:25 p.m. I�m only one man but I put on my game face and try to grasp the concept that this year�s Christmas Eve dinner will consist of spaghetti with turkey meatballs, salad with Hidden Hills Creamy Ranch dressing and a cheesy garlic bread. Having nothing against spaghetti with turkey meatballs, salad with Hidden Hills Creamy Ranch dressing, cheesy garlic bread or my sister (who gets 1/3 of everything in the event of my demise) I must now reason with my own feelings of loss. Loss of tradition coupled with the acknowledgement and disappointment that nothing from my childhood can be preserved or protected from change or from fading way into the recesses of my memory now cluttered with a menage of new memories. And it�s not that I�m opposed to change it�s just�maybe it�s just that my life as I knew it has gone through such upheaval since the safety and stability of last Christmas Eve�s pot-roast that I�m faced with the understanding that you can�t count on merely a meal to give you warm fuzzy cozy sensations of comfort and joy. My therapist tells me that comes from somewhere else but the bastard won�t tell me where. He says I have to figure that out on my own. So I ask him, "Then what do I pay you for?"

12:30 p.m. Anyway�it occurs to me that I have also been unable to prevent the loss of my adult traditions partly because as a pathological accomodater I spend a tremendous amount of time living in oblivion and energy pleasing other people and maybe what I need to learn is to count on myself to please myself and that will in turn help protect and safeguard against loss just happening.

12:40 p.m. While I wait for any of this to make sense and possibly sink in I tell Pixie, "Spaghetti with turkey meatballs, salad with Hidden Hills Creamy Ranch dressing and cheesy garlic bread? Yummy yum yum!" And in my best English accent, "See you next Tuesday."

12:55 p.m. I need a Snickers and a Motrin.

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