There was a distinct lack of snow in Milwaukee. I had fun, though. There's so much Frank Lloyd Wright architecture scattered about, and it's one of the great 19th century American cities. There are fearfully geometric lawns in front of tidy houses made of blond stone. The breweries are mostly gone now, absorbed by other companies or moved out of town, but Miller still belches forth a yeasty hops-laden plume which can be smelled for miles. The lakefront has astonishingly beautiful mansions, odes to the fortunes from steel and iron and shipping. I always feel as though I've slipped back a century when I'm there, to the days of a vigorous and optimistic national pride.
Since I brought along shoes for snow, and there wasn't any, I had nothing really comfortable to wear. Off to the local K-Mart I went, and found the most amazing pair of running shoes. They're a deep, shiny maroon, a plastic imitation of patent leather, with white soles and running stripes. $9 for what are easily the most fly pair of shoes I own. The girl ahead of me at the checkout stand was seriously impressed by their coolness. Everyone else seems to think they're utterly naff. Ha! Their coolness is transcendent.
My cats are thrilled that I'm back. So thrilled, in fact, that sleep was impossible last night as the littlest one kept snuggling up to me and purring like a tiny Evinrude outboard motor. It's charming, it makes me go all mushy and protective. My babies. Children could never be this interesting to me. My maternal instincts are attuned to animals.
A satisfying amount of mail was waiting for me when I got home yesterday. Christmas cards, a pile of fanzines, the latest World of Interiors, a new collection of AOL diskettes to be thrown away, all kinds of great stuff. I don't get many personal letters any more, but then, I don't write them any more. Email has made my life a bit poorer in certain respects. I confess to being much prompter at answering email than letters, though. Maybe it balances out.