many happy returns?

I was prepared, at the shop, for a day of refunds. Of disappointed recipients who wanted anything but what they got. The miscalculated present. I was expecting those.

But I got none of it. You could posit that the returns came before my shift, or that maybe I was sleeping on the job. You’d be wrong.

In the alternative, you could suggest that we, at the shop, listened well to buyers' queries and gave good counsel in return, or that the shop product is so excellent that only a fool would want to return it.

Better. That’s better.


I was thinking today how life is so often a guessing game and how we are forced to predict outcomes with very little information.



rosé at Brasserie V

It’s the day after Christmas. What I really need is for a big clean-up truck to roll in and pick up the debris after yesterday’s celebration. One that could sweep up and put things away and one that maybe would be capable of erasing thoughts of anticipation and replace them with thoughts of reentry into the real world.


Very late in the day, I had a holiday relapse: I baked another four dozen cinnamon rolls, in case daughters, in the last day and a half of their visit here developed an insatiable yearning for the smell of yeasty dough and cinnamon breads baking.


It’s well into the next calendar day before I make it to bed.