One of these moons I'll figure out that I'm no longer twenty-five and stop planning back-to-back dinner parties on the weekend after a full week of work. Or maybe not. This compulsion to entertain might be incurable.
Tonight Paul's school group and significant others are coming over for homemade pizza -- last count, there were going to be twelve of us. Tomorrow is my son's twenty-fifth birthday, and I have no idea who's coming, but there's a five pound beef chuck roast in the fridge, and a cake waiting to be whisked/whipped/wrangled. The painters finished Wednesday, and we've been reassembling our disassembled interior(s). The house is beginning to look habitable again, finally. Inch by inch. A little domestic shake-up can be a good thing, after all. (The cats heartily DISAGREE.)
Meanwhile, March rains have prevailed into April, a constant wet curtain through which to trudge. Part of me actually loves this rain, with clouds settled in at treetops, the world at hand snuggly swaddled. But I'm itching to sit out on the back porch under the Douglas firs and Western Red Cedars, martini at the ready, listening to the robin's evening trill.