The first Saturday of the new year.

It went down like this:

I got up at 7:45, having snoozed for 15 minutes after a 7:30 alarm, to take my son the soccer coach to breakfast in advance of his departure from the snowy, smoggy, supercharged-cold lands of Utah. We went to Village Inn. We chatted over eggs and toast about all sorts of things. The historian and I saw him off in our driveway.

I went inside and promptly--or sort of promptly--went through three different closets and identified many garments to give away. Bagged.

I considered my plans for the next week. I have to get my courses ready to go. I have to see a bunch more movies. I have to chill. I may have to do some more organizing. I need to take down my Christmas tree.

I made my son a grilled cheese sandwich, and myself a piece of peanut butter toast for lunch, and also I ate some leftover pineapple (because I bought, yes, four of them for that dinner party, and four is too many, the people. Too many!).  The cheese sandwich helped me negotiate with my son with the recovering ACL to go see Frankenweenie with me, which I have been obsessed with seeing. Score! We saw it at the dollar theater. It was, perhaps, not the most amazing thing ever, but it was clever and witty and sweet, because it was about a boy and his dog. And death and reanimation, but, you know. Sweet.

We came home, I ate a desultory stray cookie or two, got a shower, put on a sparkly dress, and then the historian and I went to dinner and a jazz concert. It was Freddy Cole, brother of Nat King, and the Bill Charlap Trio. It was a good if slightly too sedate set, and Freddy Cole, who has to be eighty or so, got increasingly good. The second set ending rousingly, with Cole bringing it on this tune (written by Billy Eckstine, covered by multitudes).

Not bad, not bad, not bad. The end.

No, wait: 


NOW it's the end.