Woman of the Year

I was riding my bike down Parliament Street this afternoon when my neighbour Gretchen and I caught sight of each other, and she started to hula, hips swaying and arms waving like a madwoman. So I guess people know I'm off to Hawaii. (Though Torontonians have nothing to complain about - the weather once again is extraordinarily mild for November. It's been an amazing month.)

Madness - it's at this point that I regret travelling, having ever travelled; all that matters is to stay home and not move. However, this too shall pass. Laundry, watering plants, leaving lists for Carol who'll keep the place running, trying to figure out what to pack for Vancouver which is much colder than here, strangely, and Hawaii which is much warmer. I keep reminding myself - it's not Kuala Lumpur. If you forget something, it can be replaced.

Here's a photo from the Raffi concert which shows you the energy level of all concerned, - one perky, one not - and from yesterday's visit; we went to the farm, where the goats were nesting in their hay feeder and the pigs were one large clump of bristly reddish pink. So grateful to live nearby.

Last night - "Woman of the year" on TCM with Spencer Tracey and Katherine Hepburn, their first movie together, and that is some chemistry. He is my new hero. In life he was troubled and an alcoholic, which is too bad, but on screen, he's the ideal man - funny, open, generous, kind - and manly, in the best sense of that tricky word.

Tomorrow before I leave for the airport, my basement tenant Leonie moves out and the new guy, Hadi, moves in. I need to take back four library books - "Hold Still," a memoir, an autobiography really, by the American photographer Sally Mann - interesting because she includes so many photos and other artifacts, but far too long and a bit annoying - she's a big believer in five dollar words; "The Art of Memoir" by Mary Karr, successful memoirist, which has some interesting stuff but boy, she sounds like a crabby person; "The true secret of writing," by the famed Natalie Goldberg, which on my cursory look-through is, once more, far too new-agey for me and seems like an advertisement for the courses she runs at her home in New Mexico; and a novel called "Beatlebone," by Kevin Barry, which I couldn't of course resist, but which is a weird weird imaginary journey with John Lennon, not my thing at all.

This is when I'm glad to have a library card, so I can check out - literally and figuratively - new interesting books but don't have to commit to having them forever in my library. God knows, there are enough books there already. So tonight - finishing as much reading as I can, once I've finished the chores and decided what to put into my suitcase. And then ... onward. Luau, lei, hula, whatever those things mean, I'm about to find out.