The weatherman says that I have a good imagination. I say that the weatherman was daydreaming.

I feel good. I am tired, tired, tired. I got up at five-thirty, after three hours of sleep. I got dressed in what has become my "It's snowing!" outfit for 2005 and went to Jackpot's. He hadn't slept much longer than I, but we were strangely alert on the walk to the subway. It's nice to make the first footprints in new snow. On the train we looked through This Old House Magazine, which is only one of two great presents I got last week. Then we had four hours of running around in the snow, and ducks, and taking pictures of imaginary moons, and one thousand dogs, and making up stories about what the dogs were trying to warn us about, and then I said, "If I get any colder I'm going to die," so it was time to go home and trade my soggy-legged jeans for a dry pair. For breakfast I made roasted potatoes and three cups of tea. See, even before eleven o'clock I'd already had such a good day. Now I have sorting and folding and packing to do, and probably several lists to write. I really want a nap, but tired isn't so bad right now. Maybe a sleepy movie and then sorting and folding and packing and lists.

I should have said more, but it feels like I have to be so careful. It will be spring soon. I'll feel more settled. I'll have changed the curtains and maybe painted the shelves. I'll think of something nice to see.