Yesterday Paul and I took a blustery walk along the bay, accomplished some mild shopping, ate tuna crudo, and assumed the ownership of four pounds of local mussels, an expensive snow shovel, and a bottle of Inuit gin. Then later, as the three of us were playing contract rummy, two neighbor children rang the doorbell and gave us a cake pop they'd made. Little-kid holiday spirit is so charming.

Today is up in the air, schedule-wise. I have many things I could do and no idea if I will actually be doing them. C'est la confusing family-life vie, when everyone tries to chunkily readjust for everyone else who might need to go in the opposite direction and no one can figure out which mouths have to feed or be be fed or when or how, plus Christmas shopping. And if you think that's a horrible sentence, be assured that it was meant to be.

Thus, I am making coffee and writing you this letter and not worrying too much about anything. Tomorrow the snow is supposed to move in again, and I'll be able to try out my expensive new snow shovel--which may have been pricey but was also about $750 cheaper than a snowblower and, according to two interfering ladies at Lowe's, is worth every penny except that sometimes the handle gets stuck in the car trunk. I am forewarned.