Reading: The same. Don't expect anything new for the next few days.

Learning: About Egyptian archaeology.

Listening: The radio

Viewing: A super old stone bridge in the park behind MFA, and all the gorgeous old buildings in the Fens, and the Citgod. Oh yeah, and the MFA.

Moving: A short stroll to the MFA

12 November 1999: Boston to Old Lyme

RDC and I planned to go to MFA in the morning while CLH slept, but we didn't wake until close to 10 ourselves because of the time change and weariness. We motivated enough to go to Star Market for breakfast makings, especially since coffee for RDC needs half-and-half and breakfast for me needs OJ, plus since we were there we bought CLH another two-gallon jug of water. We had pancakes with real syrup and bacon and coffee and some inevitable topics of conversation, but with more laughter than rancor this time.

This was the first time we discussed the funeral. It did, as CLH said, rather splinter us. She and I barely spoke for months afterward and she's spoken to BJWL perhaps twice since. I was not the Bad Daughter by noticing that there was no eulogy nor anything to personalize the service to our grandfather as an individual rather than a generic sinner that the pastor was glad he himself was not. Or we were both Bad Daughters to notice it. But at least I am not alone.

While CLH had her mid-day nap, we went to the MFA. CLH's manager's sister had comped us tickets to an Egyptian exhibit and we strolled through that and through a few other galleries. Most of my trips to the MFA have been with SEM and PLT and this time it was refreshing to focus on galleries other than those housing Asian art. In fact the last time I'd been to the MFA was an emotionally charged weekend with them, DEDBG, TJZ, and SSP, turbulent for emotional reasons as well as hormonal: I'd kind of forgotten to take the pill for three days, which might have accounted for a mid-month mood swing and certainly accounted for my becoming violently ill on the way home. Just as well for a nice afternoon with my husband to supersede that memory.

There was a model of an Egyptian village, thousands of structures in a 15x20' diaroma. Some of the very poorest people's houses looked as if constructed from starched gauze. Wee. RDC inspected these and came up saying, "I didn't know they domesticated insects." Emerging from the Egyptian exhibit, we found ourselves in the Impressionist gallery. Two of Monet's Rouens, Pissarro, Cézanne (whom I'm beginning to like a lot), a Degas ballerina, a wooden sculpture by Gaugin. I should look at more of his sculpture, if there's much. I always prefer three- to two-dimensional art. We also passed through the 20th century American gallery, in whose three O'Keeffes I pretended greater interest than I felt, just to needle my loving spouse.

Home again, CLH took me on a tour of the arts and crafts schtuff she is going to make play with all month long. That looks so fun, and she wants me to come to Boston one weekend in December ("It can be your Christmas present") to attend the Girl Party she's going to have for painting and glitter and lots of wine. Tempting, tempting. I myself feel guilty when I buy all disposable sweatshop stuff like that--but I still long for it.

When CLH's bf Brad arrived, we loaded up his car and headed off to dinner, up Mass Ave and turning left on Tremont so I could point out CLH's first two Boston apartments to RDC. Well. Not just for that. They did happen to be on the way. Somewhere on Tremont after dinner at Appetito and coffee at Icharus, CLH launched into an imitation of me sparked by what I know not. "I was standing on this square of sidewalk twelve years ago and the song that was playing was 'Brown Sugar' and then I moved to this square of sidewalk and the lyric was...." She is an expert in lisa. There was also a creamer that sent us into gales of laughter.

At Icharus, which made me think of SLH because of its clientele (mostly gay men) and location (near Back Bay Station in the South End, where I last saw him six years ago), our server set down two cups of coffee then glass of white wine then a snifter of cognac and then sugar and cream. CLH and I met each other's eyes over the creamer and collapsed into laughter. Brad apparently was mystified and RDC cleared it up as much as he could: "It's obviously something about their mother." Of course it was. BJWL has a milk glass creamer of the same pattern, just taller. This led to the straw story, which Brad had not heard before. RDC smiled, Brad seemed to listen, and of course CLH and I nearly fell off our chairs. My laugh drew some looks from the bar. Yes, that's me.

Junior year I went up to Boston the Friday before Thanksgiving--yes, I blew off classes Monday, Tuesday, and Wednesday, the only time I ever did such a thing. One night out with CLH and BHM at the bar of the Atlantic Fish House (Fairfield and Boylston, if I have the name wrong), I was so deliriously laughing that a waitress pulled me aside as we left and told us that they'd all been listening to and enjoying my laugh. Now I'm trying to remember what movie we were going to see that night. See, saying when in the year it was, that I blew off classes, and where the restaurant was, and wondering what the movie was, CLH would point to as classic unnecessary details in the lisa narrative. But they're important!

They drove us out to Logan, which was especially nice of them since it was raining. I was wearing RDC's leather jacket (which I also call "my leather jacket" in his presence) and he is very particular with it, so it was good we didn't have to T. I consider it my jacket because we bought it the same weekend we bought my engagement ring. It is my engagement jacket. RDC fails to see the logic of this.

Once the rental car people figured out that maybe we wanted the gate raised, we were on our way. In a maroon Daewoo Leganza, whatever the hell that is. A microwave, RDC suggested. Later someone told us Daewoo makes stereos. Great. I like my car manufacturer to make cars and cars only, thank you. I found our way out of Logan and Boston only because I'm from there, relatively speaking. I agree with whoever said that signs in Boston are there only for people who already know where they're going.

I-93 to I-95. Cross the border into Rhode Island at exit 25. Despite living in a western state with exit numbers numbered logically by milemarker instead of in order such that no exits can be added, I knew there were more than 25 miles of even this puny state to go. I waved at the lovely state capitol. I breathed deeply of the air near Narragansett and Misquamicutt. We crossed the border into Connecticut. North Stonington, Stonington, Mystic, Groton, New London, Waterford, East Lyme, Old Lyme. Except that I took the last East Lyme exit so I could give myself a quick early-morning dose of Old Lyme. Point-O'-Woods, Hawk's Nest, and White Sands Beaches. Hallmark's, closed for the season. Bear right on McCurdy Lane, pass Duck River Cemetery, remember Bump-bump, smile at the lovely Congregational Church, turn onto Lyme Street, beam at Phoebe there in the high beams, pass Center School and the fire station and think of the high school lurking behind. Cross under I-95 near the closer exit and grin: it'd been a long time since I passed that traffic light as a flasher instead of a full signal. Pull into 3SK, wake RDC, creep in on little fog feet, brush, pee, shiver in separate twin beds, then jump the great chasm and join spouseling in single twin. Sleep.