Despite the cat's deep irritation, I slept in till almost 7 this morning--a much needed recovery from Thursday night's scatty worry-brain. (And the cat wasn't actually as upset as he pretended because he had his new cat motel to play with: two cardboard boxes I've stapled together and cut full of doors and windows, which he believes is the height of luxury.)

Today I suppose I should do the housework I didn't do yesterday, and at some point this weekend I want to go birthday shopping for Tom. Our street still looks terrible from yesterday's snowstorm, but I expect the rest of the city is passable. We got six inches, seven inches? . . . anyway, a fair amount, and it took me a while to do all of the shoveling, plus I was working on a new poem draft, so that accounts for the lapsed housework.

Last night, before dinner, we walked over to the gallery to check out Tom's photo opening, and I was excited to see what good work one of the younger artists is doing. If I had money, I would buy one of her pieces.

And then we trudged home through the barely plowed streets, and I cooked some macaroni with broth and vegetables, and then I cut up some oranges, and we put more wood on the fire and chattered about photos and sonnets and such, and it was a really nice evening for being friends.