We closed on the same day that the co-op had their annual shareholders meeting. So, fresh from signing our names on fifty, badly xeroxed pieces of paper, with our bottle of Veuve Clicquot and some sushi in a plastic bag, we stood awkwardly against the wall of our new lobby with the other homeowners and reviewed the financial statments from 2005.

There was a kind of excitement at the meeting, because there has been a big turnover in the last few years with a lot of younger people moving in. For the first time, everyone was at the meeting and they actually had enough people who wanted to be on the board to warrant an actual vote. At the end, we pulled out the champagne and passed out plastic cups – a toast to whatever the hell comes next.

Later, sitting on the floor of our tiny, lovely new purchase, dipping california rolls into the plastic thimbleful of soy sauce, we wondered if it is possible that we might finally have done the right thing at the right time.

Reporting to you live from one of the hardest springs on record.

See, there’s a bearded gentleman and this lady, who both end up on this Japanese whaling ship. During a rainstorm, they begin to cut each other’s legs off. Meanwhile, the ship’s crew assembles a huge sculpture out of petroleum jelly. Roll credits.

(Time Out New York, 4/27)

If you have seen this particular movie, as I – for better or for worse – have, then you, too, know the true meaning of hyper-solipsism. But this review made me laugh, and, wow, has it been a long time since something made me do that.

Sloooooooooooooooowly.

Something here about trees blooming and shit. Birds and

This has been such a hard winter for me! But, then, aren’t they all. Hard, I mean. For me.

There is some light: We will, forces-of-the-universe willing, close on the new closet home on May 1, among other small mercies.

And I am leaving for a week in Ireland on Saturday. A blissful pause.

But.

I am sad, people, SAD. Inexplicably so. Feeling tiny, trapped and old.

It is just such a dark time.

This has been the year of long-term decisions, none of which will bear fruit any time in the near future… A new concept for me, queen of instant gratification.

I am utterly grounded in the prosaic. Steeped in tiny, epic decisions.

I realy am trying to get back to you, but the tide is going out out out…

February is always the longest month.

Ham, fingerling potatoes, brussel sprouts, waldorf salad, flan.

My brother is here. The dog is sleeping. Outside, rain.

I put mine on and sat down to catch up. I hadn’t seen her in about five years. Or more, maybe. We couldn’t remember.

Back in the day, I thought she was fabulously attractive. I had thrown myself at her fifty different ways. Nothing.

She is still appealing. Androgynous, placid, straightforward. But, as it does, time has passed, things have changed and all that. So.

The woman who owned the space was in the kitchen measuring ingredients, chopping, peeling. It was a cooking party, and she was the chef. We were going to make indian food for C, who is hugely pregnant. Punjabi food, actually. Lots of cumin.

C arrived, looking hugely pregnant, and we all started cooking. All fifteen of us.

So many bits of info that I cannot believe I might have gone through this life not knowing. Like how to grate and squeeze ginger, how to triple milk a coconut, how to slice an onion so that it doesn’t get soggy and make you cry, how to make garam masala from scratch, how to make dessert out of vegetables. Who knew?

We cooked, we sat, we ate, then we gathered in the corner to watch C open her gifts.

C’s donor lives in the east village. He is a gay man that she saw many years ago go-go dancing in a bar we all used to go to in Seattle. When she was ready to have a child, she tracked him down, contract in hand. He agreed to convey the needed material, but didn’t want to be involved in any other way.

We watched C open onesies and diapers and tiny socks and pacifiers. She asked us to sign a sheet of paper if we could promise to come visit her after the baby was born and to bring dinner. We sang lullabies. C looked relieved.

After we cleaned up, A and I left for her local, east village bar where there was some kind of holiday party going on. When we got there, the place was swelteringly hot and they were watching a soccer game. We debated leaving but decided to have a beer and then reconsider.

The band started setting up. It turned out to be a four piece jazz band and they sounded suprisingly good while they were warming up. One of the bartenders recognized me from the Irish session nights and bought us a round of drinks.

In the middle of the conversation A and I were having, the bartender who had recognized me came over and asked if I would sing. Apparently, the band had no singer. It was supposed to be a vaguely karaoke-like affair, but they needed an MC. So I got up and launched into Frosty the Snowman. I was wearing my gold dress.

Yesterday was the end of the semester. I told the students of one of my classes that it was the hardest class I have ever taught. This was not news to them as I had broken down crying in class sometime in October.

Some days I think I have too thin a skin for the job. I know that they are adolescents – children, still. I know that intellectually. But they are already in their adult form. It can be so confusing.

I know I will get better at it. But this particular combination of kids really hurt me. And I am always torn about how to handle that. The older teachers say not to show it, but that conflicts with some deeply held convictions that I have about transparency and power.

But, then, they are children. Being vulnerable with them doesn’t always make them compassionate, it can make them insecure. Or, in the worst cases, cruel.

Thankfully, my other class – the same course material, different students – was wonderfully alive, curious, and respectful. I would have crawled through this semester without them.

A slushy snow is falling this morning, M and I are continuing our house hunt this weekend, I am staying home for the holidays for the first time since I did it for the first time in my early twenties, my brother is joining us, New York is in full pre-holiday gear, I am working hard on setting up a new business in Ireland, I just finished a workshop production of an absurdist play, and I have been out performing sean-nos singing several times a week this fall.

My life. Happening now. Don’t blink.