Gotham Diary:
Missing
Before dinner last night, I was sitting here in the living room with my friend Eric. We were talking about a new novel that we had both read, and all of sudden I felt flush, because I’d just heard Eric tell me that he had written a blurb for the book’s dust jacket. How had I missed this? I don’t read blurbs; I may glance at the names of the blurbers — and in this case, I’d  recognized two names but unaccountably missed Eric’s. It was probably just as well; if I’d know about his blurb while I was reading the book and talking about it to friends, I’d undoubtedly have dropped a lot of fatuouscomments about knowing someone who’d written a blurb &c a friend of the author &c. But my reputation as an observer was severely dinged.
Then, this afternoon, I couldn’t find the American Express bill. I hadn’t seen it come in, and my suspicion is that it was misdelivered; there’s been a lot of that going on lately, whenever our regular mail deliverer is off duty. After a lot of dithering — I hate to talk to credit cards company representatives, doubtless the long-term aftereffect of decades-old impecunious traumas — I called American Express and arranged for a replacement to be sent. No problem. Meanwhile, the outstanding balance that was due this month, which I also asked for, seemed very high. Without the bill in hand, I couldn’t analyze the figure, and I experienced a variation of another old waking nightmare, not being able to remember what I did last night. It took a while to calm down enough to remember some hefty up-front expenses at the dermatologist’s. This brought the balance due into line.
I’m not going to bleat about senior moments or incipient dementia. The plain truth is that this sort of thing used to happen all the time, because I paid little or no attention to things that didn’t interest me. Tedious details were a crime against nature. The consequences of this lackadaisical outlook were not pleasant, and I was often put into quite a fugue state by the fruits of my shambolic disregard. I don’t know when I discovered that life was a lot more agreeable if I made an effort to put things where they belonged, and if I made a point of paying the bills once a month. But it doesn’t come naturally, and if I couldn’t rely on slowly but surely developed habits, I’d break down every day.
I expected, back in 1985, that the personal computer would make a good substitute for the personal secretary, and it took about twenty years for me to realize that that was never going to be the case. Ever. I can’t tell you how much time and wretchedness I poured into teaching desktops and laptops how to manage my home. Beyond using Quicken to write checks — but wait, you say; you’re still writing checks? Oh, yes, indeed; without the bits of paper hardcopy, I wouldn’t know from one week to the next where I stood. I have become a heavy user of pads and pencils.
When Kathleen got home last night, we had a very nice dinner — but one that would have been better if I’d remembered to season the sauté de boeuf à la Parisienne with salt and pepper.