T had a new printer delivered, and we had to get it into the house yesterday. You'd think this would be no big deal, but you would be wrong. It's a large-format photo printer weighing two hundred plus pounds, and in order to get it out of the driveway and up the stoop into the living room, he had to attach a come-along to the upstairs bathroom doorframe so we could winch it in. Now it is hulking in the living room until he can hire movers to get it up the stairs and into his study.

In short, remember those floors I cleaned on Friday? Um.

Into the midst of all this walked an old friend, down from Bangor for the weekend, who was supposed to be the enjoyer of my clean house but instead got an eyeful of monster printer, busted-up styrofoam, and plenty of fresh mud. Ah, well.

Anyway, we vamoosed pretty quick and spent the day downtown, wandering through the art museum, waiting endlessly for pizza, and talking talking talking; then met up with T for dinner and more chatter. It was a lovely day, despite my exasperation with the floors. And afterward T and I leaned together on the couch and semi-dozed through Sean Connery as James Bond, so, as you can see, I am not holding his filthy shoe prints against him.

Today: no particular tasks, other than grocery shopping, laundry, and probably dealing with another round of dirt as T gets ready to move the old printer out of his study. At least, as we laughed at dinner, he is not a sculptor, requiring five barns to house his mistakes.

There is much to be said for being a poet. One pencil. One notebook. A laptop is a helpful luxury. And voila.