I've been officially Sick Of Winter for weeks now, but today's storm hasn't been such a bad thing. Neither of us has had to be anywhere today, and it's been nice to kick back and just have an extra Sunday today, without all of Sunday's obligations (Greg's organist work and my chorus practice).
The snow's still falling outside at the moment, and I stopped counting after 8 inches. Doogie and Persephone are napping inside, and Charlie is napping outside. (He's the only one of us who still gets excited at the sight of snow.) Greg's playing Brahms and Schubert on the piano, and I've been making progress on my poncho when I haven't come back to the computer to answer email and catch up on this blog.
Greg had some very good news today. The regular organist at the Congregational church where he played yesterday wants to take off the entire month of April, so the music director emailed Greg and asked whether he'd like to fill in. Of course he agreed -- not only does he like playing for a friendly audience, but it means he gets to play for four Sunday services and four choir practices. This church pays very well, and they're a 5-minute drive from home. Greg expects that he'll be even busier in the spring, when more people want to take time off, and the wedding season starts up.
I'm not yet sure what the evening will bring in the way of entertainment. Pirate and Mr. P have been watching some terrific stuff on DVD of late, but it seems Greg and I haven't sat still long enough to get through a whole movie in ages. I started watching "Mishima: A Life in Four Chapters," which I've had out from Netflix since New Year's, but only managed to get through half an hour's worth or so before I was interrupted.
Did you all read that Hunter S. Thompson, the man who defined "gonzo journalism," committed suicide yesterday? How sad. Somehow I expected that he'd have gone in a blaze of glory, or maybe having blown himself up after running afoul of one of his ether canisters and a large, gasoline-powered vehicle, cursing the Fat Cats right up until the explosion, and flashing the bird in the general direction of the White House. Ave atque vale.