I know, it's been a blog-less week so far, and not by choice.
On Sunday we were entertaining up at the cottage on the Big Lake. It was a grey, damp, drizzly sort of day, but the magnificent feast that accompanied the grilled salmon steaks warmed us. As did all the company.
One of the many photographers in the family caught me hugging the grillmeister.
I spent Monday trapped at the Lodge with workmen: two new furnace installers, one old furnace removal assistant, and two water filtration system servicemen. Amazingly, I got some writing done but nothing terribly literary or novelistic, just a couple of articles.
My legislative committee met on Tuesday morning for an extensive, fascinating, and informative presentation (Power Point) on Search and Rescue Teams and their work. We heard about good outcomes, and sad ones. After lunch break we reviewed two retained bills. An Executive Session will be convened to dispose of them in coming weeks.
At mid-afternoon I raced through the rain to my college office, where class registration is in full swing. I worked till after 6 p.m.
In my car this week I'm listening to Mark Knopfler's last album, Shangri La, which helps me cope with the almost unbearable anticipation of his next, due in stores on Tuesday.
I had no time to dwell on the September 11 anniversary, except in the morning when I was a bit weepy. The second worst day of my life. Read all about it here because I blogged it last year. (I can't actually remember the very worst day of my life, only the incidents afterwards, I was very young.)
Today's weather was eerily 9/11/01-ish. So clear, sky so blue and cloudless, air a bit crisp. Spent all day at the office, left at 5 p.m., ran errands and was home at 6:30. The Chap had already left for his Planning Board meeint.
Arrived to find my ludicrously expensive special order perfume waiting, the one I discovered on the scented magazine insert a couple of weeks ago. Is it worth the price? I'm so enraptured, I don't care. For decales I've been sticking with my British favourites (from Floris, from Penhaligon's), so it's nice having something new. Nowadays so many people are allergic to scents that I hardly ever wear any when out in public. It may serve as a private indulgence. Mostly.
Speaking of ludicrous, must share this classified ad from a local newspaper.
Free to good home, extremely loving and affectionate 6 year old male black Irish wolfhound/Terrier mix, great with other dogs.
I'm not seeking a fourth dog (seriously!). But I have enjoyed speculating on how its parents got together. Wolfhound and terrier? They're at opposite ends of the dog size spectrum.
Ah, romance. It has the power to overcome all obstacles. To transcend differences in breed. And physique.