We are tapping on our laptops, a plate of orange cranberry muffins between us and two mugs of tea cooling to drinkable temps.
It is, in fact, the perfect Monday morning.
And, we’re headed to Somerset mall after breks, the ritzy mall 45 minutes away with a Gucci and a Barneys and an Anthropologie for an afternoon of shameless wandering and soaking in the holiday decor. And maybe a little Christmas shopping. Who knows.
(Carl’s foot has just snuggled up to mine. C: “Remember when we used to play footsie when we were dating?” K: “Hmmm. No.” C: “Me neither; come look at these pictures and tell me which ones you think are better…”)
Ah, Monday and a whole week of bliss ahead.
Both of my babies are grown up and in exclusive relationships right now, so for the first time there is literally nothing I SHOULD be doing with either book. I can’t send them to other agents. There’s no point in editing until I hear back.
So, it’s either a week of domestic play in the abode or time to start the chicken scratches of another book. Or maybe some of both.
All I know for sure is that I’ve officially switched to a 2 month holiday schedule. I used to think Christmas shouldn’t start until after Thanksgiving, but Carl had a hockey practice the other night and I ended up waiting for an hour for him in a coffee shop nearby, snugged up with this beautifully thoughtful book and a hot chocolate, and people kept coming in and out all wrapped in scarves and cheerfulness, and this jingle bellish music was playing and the back table was reserved for this fantastically jovial bunch of middle-aged papas playing dominos and speaking very quickly in what sounded like Italian and was definitely not Spanish.
And it was lovely.
I have always been a person of instant conversions, though I can fret forever about the things that don’t really matter.
But, holidays matter.
And I am celebrating.