After a sweet interlude of friend-visiting yesterday evening, I'm now waking up in grim pre-snow Portland with a list of morning errands to run and then an afternoon class to teach and a sensation that all of this planning could be moot if they sky decides to dump its load earlier than scheduled. Last night's chatter was tonic: three mostly solitary writers eating grilled-cheese sandwiches, and our conversation shooting off on this-or-that tangent, and probably all of us feeling odd about talking at all. But feeling good, too, I think.

And then I came home to find Tom under the couch blanket watching The Thirty-Nine Steps. So that was good also.

And my writer evening reminded me that my housework research is actually interesting.