This morning, I huddled with my tea (in the Jane Austen mug, naturally) and the falling snow, all of us quietly keeping company.

I’m not usually a snow person. Don’t get me wrong, I think it’s beautiful. But cold means having to be indoors, away from my friend the sun, and snow is a visible sign that it’s undeniably cold. 

But this morning I couldn’t wait to yank the curtains open and watch the snow drifting down while I read Austen while drinking from my Austen mug. I didn’t even realize the matchup until later. 

I waited a beat to go to the gym to let the snow melt a bit. I rarely enjoy driving and I am not a fan of driving in snow. Like, at all. 

When I got there, I discovered that others must’ve had the same idea because there were several there, including a mother with a baby in a carseat. Which worried me for the poor little one. Then again, everything worries me. 

Happy to report that the joints are doing better. In fact, I pushed myself some at the gym and am not yet feeling the effects. I want to mention a milestone but it may seem small potatoes to anyone else. Regardless, I marked it.

Today somehow turned into a lightning-round decision day: 

My birthday: Go away for the weekend or stay home? Eh. Might as well save the money and not go anywhere. I’m not feeling it this year.

Thanksgiving at home or travel? At home. 

But an at-home meal or restaurant? 

Dine out, unless the son (who will be joining us) has major reservations about it. Then I will gladly cook. But he’d better tell me soon if that’s what he wants.

Go on a winter writing retreat? 

I’m on the fence.

But also, my novel STILL isn’t finished and maybe, maybe she needs some quiet. Maybe she needs housekeeping and a daily prepared breakfast. Maybe she needs wooded trails (I did mention that things are going well for the body?) and yes, quite possibly some snow at a writing retreat.

That might interest me. 

Definitely maybe.

Yesterday morning, before my niece’s baby shower, I decided that before anything else, I wanted to write. I wrote a poem.

Then another.

And another. 

Word Raccoon says I really shouldn’t admit that I wrote twelve in the morning and more in the evening. 

I even wrote a poem about how years ago I noticed a poet listening to two girls talk about putting on lipstick and I’ll eat my hat if said person didn’t end up writing a poem about that, though I don’t know for sure.

(Oh, god. Is that too Van Gogh/Gauguin?)

Not according to WR.

I wish I could ask. 

I’m tempted to share my version of the poem being born here, but I only have a rough draft of it, and no. Not sharing. Not yet. Maybe never. It’s one of the tender ones. 

Mostly the poems from Saturday were of the art-as-revolt kind and one was so heated I would only ever publish it under a pseudonym. I came after pretty much every institution in my poems, every ready-to-wear, standard issue, outfit.

Speaking of, society, are we REALLY sure we want to return to wearing matching top and bottom pant sets? I wasn’t a fan the first time around, not a fan now. It’s too limiting, and the eye wants variety, loves. Or so WR tells me. 

And honestly, do we really need Garanimals for adults? 

(Obv. I’m not talking about suits, which are their own animal and not generally multihued and are smart as hell.) 

Now back to poetry.

Some of the poems are currently untitled. Some are temporarily titled. 

– Just Realized the World is Ending, Eventually (How cheery, am I right?)

– Puddles and Squirrels Will Complain

– Paddling

– That Damn Emily (from Our Town, loves)

– Redacted (It’s not THAT bad, but still.) 

– Redacted #2 (Don’t want anyone clutching their pearls on a Sunday, do we?) 

– Farmer’s Almanac Leaves the Scene

– Superstition Factory

– (…..) Cry (It’s a pun. I’m embarrassed. And also, that’s the hot potato one.) 

– Steeps

– Microwave Reheat #3

– Banned in Boston (placeholder, but that’s the vibe; it has everything: Cheap lipstick, black eyeliner, and Dollar Tree posterboard)

AFTER THE BABY SHOWER I WROTE:

– My Private Le Cordon Bleu (My newest Dutch oven, btw, is a beaut – white enamel, gold, filagreed knob. I think I’m getting addicted to them! And it’s not Le Cordon Bleu branded; IDK if they even make Dutch ovens.)

– Midwestern Caviar (Spoiler: it’s lentils) 

– Why Left, Not Right, in the Poem: The King’s Speech (Wish I had heard that one. But I was told about it second hand, so.) 

– Pretty to Think So 

– Marshalls and the Lipsticked 

The baby shower was a wonderful opportunity to celebrate the impending arrival of a baby girl I cannot wait to hold, but it was unfortunately also a showcase of all who should have been there but were not. There was a nice turnout, for sure, but it was difficult not to notice those who are no longer with us. 

I spoke there with a niece about my youngest sister’s art. She is the one doing the sorting, and she revealed there are notebooks full of song lyrics, too. I have already politely asked for one drawing to frame, but now I want it all. I want every scrap of paper, every napkin she drew on. They’re not mine to ask for. As I’ve mentioned before, she has one child, a son. They are his now, as they should be.

(And maybe I had to go hide in the bathroom and cry for a minute at the shower hearing about those notebooks, but I survived.) 

I will ask for copies. In fact, Word Raccoon has an idea for a project using them if my nephew doesn’t mind. She says she can’t say anything else just yet, that I need a few months to breathe before I even consider it.

She also reminds me that I have a novel to finish. 

Yeah, yeah, yeah.