Sorry, y'all; I'm beat. I feel I cannot summon the power to take all the events of the past days and blend them into a perfect cocktail. I will do it later. Martin's late night and the girls aren't quite in bed; Bea's wailing up a storm because her sisters are still up; Merry's stacking books for late-night reading, and Elspeth is cleaning up the doll house. . .We had a crazy snow last night, the sort that felt like someone was shaking an open feather comforter all over us. I am on strike; the weather is just acting silly and I will not tolerate it. I am tired of being cold and refuse to be cold anymore, so the weather will just have to cooperate if it wants to see my sunny face singing anthems any time soon. The weather became childish last night, when I was called away out of my pre-p.j. shower by a command that I show up at I. T.'s house. Over the phone, I. T. informed Martin, "I would like Kim at my house at 7:15." So I went because I was intrigued, only to be served wine, salad and homemade pizza. My hostess, I. T., told all her guests (I was the only one who found out at the last minute I was going) that she loved and hated her little dog and would have the little dog stuffed when it died and then she would love it all the more because she could pet the little dog and not have to care for its capricious needs anymore. After dinner, I. T.'s husband literally blew in the door and told us all we'd better go home because there was a horrible storm outside (we laughed; we thought he was joking) but then someone remarked he was serious and we all left in huge, tea-saucer sized snowflakes.
I didn't suppose I was going to write much and I shan't write any more, since Bea is terribly and horribly put out.
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