It's nasty in Portland this morning--clots of snow/sleet/rain mashing down from the clouds--and I'm glad none of us has to go anywhere today. Unfortunately, however, I do have to drag the recycling etc. to the curb, an unattractive proposition that I'm postponing by writing to you.

My resolution for the day is to undertake a deep clean in the kitchen. With no cupboard doors, things quickly get grimy and dusty in there, so I'm going to unload each shelf, wash down the space, wash all of the dishes stored there, wipe down all of the bottles and boxes that live there, and thus slowly make my way through the entire room. I am not looking forward to this job, but a crappy-weather Saturday is probably as good a day as any. And now that Tom has given my new phone a new Spotify account, I'll have something to entertain me as plow through the shelves.

Speaking of plowing, I'm making progress on Swann's Way. I'll definitely finish it, but I can't say I've enjoyed it. The love affair between Swann and Odette is driving me nuts. He is such a sap, and she is such a bitch, and the pair of them are so unlikable that I'm finding Proust's depiction of obsession barely tolerable. I can't wait to be reading something else.

Let's ring in the new year by admitting we don't like something we're expected to like (or that we expected ourselves to like): I'll start with Proust, and throw in pomegranates, French New Wave movies, the couch in the back room, the poems of Wallace Stevens, Cadbury Creme Eggs, flannel sheets, Leonard Cohen songs, anything written by Scott and Helen Nearing, and long underwear.