friday night

The tree is up and the lights are on it. I have tackled the boxes and drug them down the stairs. The stairs that are exactly as wide as my ass. I'm sure I've mentioned that before. So, it is about *that much* narrower than the plastic bins. (Hold your fingers almost together. Picture it. Work with me.) Now, it is wide enough to bring the boxes down WITHOUT lids, but what is a box without a lid? But that is precisely what has to happen before I can get the fragile shit out of the attic. It didn't go so well with the lights. They tumbled down the stairs without me. And still work.

After the meltdown last weekend, I trotted up the stairs to the room Nicole hated. It is a garret to be sure, but I looked at it and saw nothing but possibility. I will take some before pictures so y'all can watch the process. I am a writer, I should have a garrett. Is that the right word? An attic room? Wait. I'll check.

Okay. Here it is:
gar·ret1 /ˈgærɪt/ Pronunciation[gar-it] –noun: an attic, usually a small, wretched one.

So, there you have it. It IS a small, wretched room. But it has a great window that, like this one, looks down on Clinton Street. My view of the world. And when I get my laptop, it will be perfect. It is perfect now, but for paint, rugs, art and a chair that will fold up and fit up the stairway, then fold out into something Cleopatra might have enjoyed.

Today, the Dicken's Carollers came to entertain. 4 acapella singers who transformed a ninety-something audience into children for an hour. The beauty of Alzheimer's: mine sang along.