I am a person with a new haircut, and the future feels so rosy  . . . at least until I wash my hair and the beautiful style vanishes and I'm back to my usual stick-up-every-which-way. Still, even a mop is better than those terrible water-buffalo horns.

I don't know how you put-together people do it: nice hair, nice makeup, nice fingernails. I somehow never figured any of that out.

Well, enough, of this fancy talk. It's back-to-work week, and I spent yesterday answering emails and dealing with scheduling and generally trying to sort myself out. Occasionally I looked in on Paul, who was watching a National Theatre production of The Cherry Orchard (and who was subsequently pleased to discover that his review of the production almost exactly matched the opinion of the Guardian's theater maven). I put Byron back on the shelf and ordered a copy of Millay's Collected. I did not manage to get any exercise and was annoyed with myself.

Today: editing and bread baking, interspersed with more schedule planning and email answering. It's ridiculous how much time that can take up. No wonder people have secretaries. I've been invited to be a regular contributor to Teresa's newsletter, which will mean writing an essay at least every other month. Several people have asked me to mentor their poetry manuscripts. Plus teaching; plus editing. I have got to create some semblance of order on my calendar, or I will never figure out how to get anything done.

But first things first--make coffee for Tom's work mug, tidy the rooms, start the laundry, order fish and groceries . . .

So much juggling. I used to believe this would end when the boys grew up. Apparently not.