Funny how one little transit strike takes all of one's best-laid plans and mashes them into a paste. This was supposed to be a week of incremental cleaning of the apartment, leisurely packing and a nice early stroll to the N train on Friday morning. Instead it has been a week of walking in the bracing air, applying Band-Aids to blisters and eating Afghan takeout while watching The French Chef on dvd. Happily, the strike is over, but we are still hedging our bets, keeping our 3:30 a.m. car pickup just in case someone doesn't get the message that high-occupancy vehicle rules no longer apply between 5 and 11. Yes, I should have been in bed an hour ago. Thank you for your concern.
This time tomorrow, I should be curled up blissfully on the sofa in my parents' tv room, falling asleep in front of some permutation of Law and Order. The spiced beef, our Christmas Eve entree, will have been roasted, cooled, wrapped in wax paper, pressed between two cutting board and tied together so that it will pack down in the fridge. Maybe at that point I will stop feeling as if I have had the everloving stuffing kicked out of me. I'm not there yet, though.
Dear friends, I might just be able to check in from my parents' newly DSL-ed house, but should I be wrong, please have a beautiful and happy Chrisnukahkwanstice. Travel safely. Kiss everyone you love, and then kiss them again.