it's winter and it's the Oscars

Just so you know, the road to a published book is rocky and long. Despite goodwill on all sides, problems abound, and nothing is guaranteed. Stay tuned.

On Monday, the first day of March Break, my grandsons came over for the day, as their mother was at work and then preparing for their massive trip the next day. They left at 4 a.m. on Tuesday morning to drive in a rental car to Washington, D.C., to visit Anna's dad. A very long drive. So it was my job to keep the boys happy and fed while she prepared. She is a phenomenally organized woman.

We went to the toboggan hill, expecting it, on a sunny day with fresh snow, to be packed with kids. 

Not a single one. Where was everyone? I assume on their way to Florida or else at home playing video games. Shocking. These two, however, wore themselves out screaming down the hill. 

And then came home and destroyed my house, as they do. Tiggy watched from a safe distance under the dining room table. After their mama came to get them and they drove away, I found this on my desk.

There must be a note leaving gene. When my parents were out late, I always left notes for them before going to bed. My kids used to leave notes for me, and sometimes Sam still does. And now the boys are note-leavers. Hooray!

They arrived safely by mid-afternoon, and an hour later were in the pool at their dad's building. More hooray.

Watched some of the Oscars, which was less tedious and embarrassing than usual — in fact, which was enjoyable and sometimes moving. After an hour, I taped it to watch later. Sarah Polley! Giant hooray. Women still torturing themselves in absurd shoes they can hardly move in and ridiculous dresses with their breasts hanging out — Florence Pugh in a voluminous pile of cloth that split to reveal a pair of black shorts. Sarah, in tuxedo with flat shoes — perfect. 

It's very cold, the real winter we didn't have in January. Hard to believe I'm flying off on Sunday. Much to do; several cat- and house-sitters to show the ropes. My poor Tigs knows something is afoot and never lets me out of her sight. So far, the word from Paris is — the strikes are ongoing, another huge one tomorrow. Danger music. Sanitation workers are on strike, Paris is full of garbage, and there are rats. Cross your fingers for a hapless Canadian who just wants to eat some bread and cheese and see some paintings. 

When I leave Monique's sister's flat, I'll leave a note.