Yesterday was a sociable day--haircut at 11, lunch with a friendly author at noon; then out again at 6 with Tom to the Bakery Photo Collective's annual auction, which is a giant hoo-hah, packed with people, a band, an open bar (he always donates work and we like to see what others are up to), then driving back across town to my friend Marita's birthday party, and then at 8 T suddenly says, "Let's go out to dinner," so the evening turns into a date: we drive home, park, and stroll around the corner to our local, where I eat mussels and T eats a croque monsieur, and we hold hands on the icy walk home. "When's the last time we went three places in one evening?" he asks, and I say, "Maybe never?"

Portland is such a nice city to be social in, partly because it only takes 10 minutes to drive from one end  to another and yet there's a variety of neighborhoods and things to do: lots of arty stuff, excellent food, the ever-present bay, and then back to our old-fashioned little enclave, with its walks and gardens and friends so close by. The best thing, really, is that T has taken a shine to my poets; it makes me so happy to watch them get to know one another better. He is pleased to hang out with them, to go on outings with them, and I am so glad to have my varied sweethearts take joy in one another.

And now here we are, Saturday morning, still dark outside, no doubt still cold and breezy, the sidewalks still slick. I've got various this-and-that plans for the weekend: cleaning the basement, working on Christmas cards, cogitating over summer conference stuff, going to the fish market, finishing up my Christmas shopping. I've had a busy week, and I'll have a busy weekend, and next week will be busy too.  But that is the tale of December.