I’m all right with the world today.

Much of the time, as many of you know, I suffer from a common character flaw of alcoholics, the non-specific anxiety syndrome that comes from seeing disaster around every corner, an expectation of catastrope, a sense of impending doom, the expected punishment for my unknown failures.

Not today.

Today, I’m all right with the world.

Not only do I not care that the weather is horrible, I celebrate it. I’m in a warm house, dishwasher and laundry going to keep it from being so dry, listening to my newest CD purchase, the opera “Il Travatore” featuring Placido Domingo.

In the back room, I’ve got five DVDs of movies I’ve never seen. Last night, I watched “Hollywood Land”, about the suicide of the actor who portrayed Superman in the 50s television series.

I’m provisioned nicely. Not only shall I not want for food, but I have delicious and wonderful cold-weather fare, including but not limited to hot chocolate.

I’ve spent a good bit of the day reading the New York Times and dabbling on the ‘net with the cat ensconsed on my lap.

I’m alone, but not at all lonely, and that gives me the freedom to listen to music few of my friends would relish, the liberty to read the paper for an extended time without interruption and the ease to indulge my movie moods.

I had a lovely dinner last night and today feel sated and content with my fate.

Of course my finances are a mess, but no one will mess with me on Sunday in the midst of this ice storm. At least for the moment, I’m safe.

I have a merry little blaze crackling in the fireplace. For primal reasons I’ve never cared to try to understand, a fire is a great comfort to me, even if it’s decoratively attenuated from its pre-civilization utility.

I understand not a word of the opera, but the passionate power of its emotionality is transporting; you can feel the pain, the love, the hope and hopelessness of the story without knowing a damn thing about the music. It’s the art of opera, in my opinion, that it is able to strum our emotions no matter how ignorant we are of the form.

My biggest political worry — that Bush would unilaterally launch a military attack on Iran — has been quelled by events and I haven’t picked up the bug about the polling and political campaigns yet. It’s just not as important to me right now as is the white cat hair on my black turtleneck.

My Charleston sister is enjoying 70-plus degree beach house parties and it’s a comfort to me to know that she’s well and happy.

My Mom called about some trivial matter and I’m so grateful that she’s well, happy and still in possession of her faculties. She is a blessing in my life.

My daughter and I have been conspiring to be Santa and that is such a complete joy that it makes me smile to paw through our emails. My son is deeply involved in a New Orleans Christmas stage production and that makes me proud and pleased.

I recently read that each day we can choose to be happy or sad and that it’s the same amount of work either way. Today, that doesn’t seem so true. I work damn hard at being unhappy and this seems so utterly effortless.

I must admit there on the edge of this Era of Good Feeling there’s just a tinge of schadenfreude at those single-minded consumers who are fighting to shop for Christmas in this weather. Just thinking of their misery makes me smile.

So, that’s it from the House of Ennui.

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