I woke up this morning with a head cold and a splitting headache. On the bright side I have a house full of boys. James's best friend spent the night, and it was just like old times here, except that now I keep plaintively thinking, "Will this ever happen again?" whereas in the real old times I  just got distracted by filthy boots and late-night stereo thumps.

Today I plan to make a cake. Of course it is still raining, and of course I haven't planted half of what I ought to have planted by Memorial Day weekend. But the weather is still so cold. No beans or corn would care to sprout in such conditions. I lit a fire in the wood stove this morning, which will make the dog so happy when she comes downstairs.

The headache is beginning to abate, though my IQ still feels low. If I write anything stupid this morning, blame it on the head cold. The bird feeder at the kitchen window is packed with enthusiasts: a red-breasted grosbeak, a purple finch, a mourning dove. On the other side of the house a hummingbird is braving roof drips as big as her head. The daylight is moss-green. A small wind is gusting among the water-logged lilacs. This is the kind of weather my mother calls "raw."

I see that I am still rambling on, so now I will tell you about something nice that just happened to me. I was in the grocery store yesterday, and I was accosted by a man who said, "Are you the fiddle player?" Turns out the man was Dave Mallett.

Now I'll tell you another nice thing that happened to me. I was invited to be the headline act at the Stonington Opera House's annual poetry event. Last year Wes McNair was the headliner, so I am feeling rather pleased about this.

In less exciting news, my carpal tunnel problems are flaring up, I still can't find a real job, and somebody spilled rhubarb-pie juice all over the bottom shelf of the refrigerator.