More than usual going on. A beloved friend visiting. Being out and about with her — MFA and JFK Library. Then a dinner party. K with a mole that needed not just removal but excising. Meeting with estate planner same day as surgery. Crafting a query letter for novel. Sending it out once. Teaching a class (yeah!).
Purchased a nifty mini-light box. Hope to have time to really use soon.
It’s been very windy and warm but tonight the temps are supposed to drop: time to bring the last of the plants in. I’ll be tied up for most of the next week but will post some pictures anyway, here and on Instagram.
Home Depot run followed by Savers. Look at that beautiful linen shawl and swath of Woolrich houndstooth!
Ansel Adams at the MFA — unbelievably crowded. Tolerable because I know I’ll be back.
Watching Bird Box (creepy good with some unexplained baloney that I now call ‘the Lost Effect’ — after the TV show).
Fitbit early observations: the steps have got to be inflated (it doesn’t take 1200 to get dressed and make breakfast), sleep stages are all in the normal range but I could use a little more, and I really am not that keen on having this apparatus on my wrist (don’t tell K. And anyway I know I’ll find it useful).
All good holidays now include trips to the airport. We head back to terminal B later today.
I cannot believe that I used to put out dinners for four 350 nights a year.
I swore an oath, I mean. To uphold the Constitution and so on in service of my duties as a Notary Public. This is the sort of formality that when practicing law seemed a quaint inconvenience but this morning (after being a stay at home mom for a long time (and now a stay at home whatever)), seemed a little momentous.
The raised right hand. Proof of identity. Presentation of the letter of appointment.
After swearing the oaths, I signed the big ledger book. All wrong. Oh dear. The beautiful thick pages with tri-color lines marred by my inability to follow directions. I was halfway done, when I noticed the pen tied to the counter, clearly meant to service the signees. Appalled, I asked, “Is this supposed to be in black ink?” Oops. And then I scribed today’s date in the box meant for the commission’s start date. Scribble. Scribble. “I’m so sorry,” I said to the nice man behind the counter (a counter, which, by the way came up to my collar bones and might’ve had something to do with an impaired performance) (nice try, Dee). “Your beautiful pages. Your lovely book. I’m so sorry.” I got the sense that the clerk didn’t give a shit about the book but appreciated my forlorn apology.
K drove me in and out. What a guy! I had three months to get this done and left it to very nearly to the last minute.
Other news: I registered (correctly, as it turns out) for Newton Open Studios yesterday. It takes place the first weekend in April. I’ve participated five times in this city-wide event, but it’s been a while. I have so much finished work! So much almost-finished work. As long as I put the writing first, I’m good. Actually — excited!
A list of things released from the snow banks or recently dropped: a perfectly unbruised Granny Smith apple; two foil packets marked “HYPE”; dog shit; pine cones; pine branches; rhodie branches; nut hulls; more dog shit. Up and over the hill — a river of catalpa pods, as if Winter set out to weave a basket edge to the sidewalk and gave up in fatigue. On Wakefield: a wicker Santa head; a blue puzzle piece (sky? ocean?); Corona beer caps. Back on Jackson: bags with squished remains of lunch; foil; shards of a paper plate; small branches; large branches. At the end of one driveway, a newspaper disgorged from plastic, wet and re-wet and driven over so many times it is tempting to the papermaker in me, but I know I could never bring myself to shovel it up (because it would require forethought? because I want to see how long it stays there? because the papermaking supplies are who-knows-where?). Everywhere: dog shit. On some telephone poles: plastic covered appeals for neighbors to pick up their dog shit. An old water bottle filled with bird seed. Looking up for a moment: a hawk sails to the south, with specks of audacious passerines flapping behind. Down low: pine branches; oak branches; sycamore hulls; and dirt, dirt, dirt.
Here and there: brave spades of hosta shoving aside ice and dirty snow, making their proclamations of spring.
Rounding the corner to the house (here, I let the leash go and command “go home!”): mud, hemlock detritus, an entire row of hosta (mine) peeking up. It is snowing again. Did I mention that?
I am wondering if I shall find whatever pieces of myself fell off during this winter. There seems no guarantee.