Finale, finally.

Finally, now that I have my ADB to USB adaptor, I have cracked open Finale 2005� and begun copying music again, this time a marimba solo piece that will be premiered early in the new year. As with all new software, even upgrades (perhaps especially upgrades because I knew the older program so well) there is a learning curve, fraught with frustration and frazzles nerves. As I worked this afternoon, distracted by all the fun things on this computer (another reason I liked the old hardware: it wasn�t connected to the internet and I couldn�t get caught up in the wide world that is at my fingertips), I failed to notice the failing light until the room was in total darkness, save for my one desk lamp and the backlight from my monitor. I also didn�t notice the temperature dropping until I sat here shivering in the dark, and knew it was time to stop working and make supper. The one good thing about copying again is that I am in the attic, as far away as one can get from the kitchen and the gingerbread men and chocolates (I finished off the last of the shorbread today: mea culpa), but that doesn�t stop my stomach from growling and complaining that I am neglecting it, especially when I could smell the apple-caramel squares that Buddy Boy had baking in the oven.

My cleaning lady was here again today (I love you Mandy!) and the house is spick and span. Every week as she cleans away the grime of years (and I really do mean years) the place gets a little better looking. Today she cleaned up the floor of the mudroom closet, one of those places where you opened the door at your own risk lest you became inundated in the cascading contents, in this case mostly plastic bags. It is beautifully organized (although I can�t promise you for how long), plastic bags in one receptacle, paper bags in another, Hubby�s defunct tennis shoes (why can�t he just throw them out like normal people?) neatly arranged, the rag box no longer spilling over, and the deck chair cushions placed on the top shelf instead of strewn every which way. One of these days I will ask her to clean my refrigerator. Not yet, though.

Tomorrow we drive to Montreal for the surprise 60th birthday party (a cinq � sept at a posh downtown hotel in the Maestro Room) of a dear friend of ours, the wife of the former third prof in our department who left for greener pastures six years ago and whom we miss terribly. It doesn�t seem that long ago that M was turning 50 and her husband made a surprise party for her, with the stipulation that any gifts be funny ones. Provided the weather is fine, this will be a lot of fun.

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