Inches of snow, here on the mountain. Inches & inches & inches. Upon waking, I went out first thing to idle my car for 20 minutes--I haven't driven in ten days, and I'm worried about having a dead battery for the drive back to DC on Monday. Trudging out to the parking lot in my pajama pants, boots, shearskin black formal coat, and yellow flowered umbrella, I was quite a sight. "Elegant," one of the women at breakfast called it, but she was being diplomatic.
Keeping it simple for today: camped out on the living room couch, still in my pajamas (satin snakeskin in shades of garnet and magenta, in case you were wondering), with an electric blanket between me and my laptop. If I were a man, I'd be fearing for my fertility right now. 6,000 words to write. Assuming I can make the progress needed, I already have a reward planned for each night: a screening of La Vie en rose, and reading Wells Tower's Everything Ravaged, Everything Burned. Then home again, home again.
Listening to: Howlin' Wolf's "Spoonful"
Missing: my fur-rimmed hat
This is what we call the end game, folks.