It's snowing. Lots, supposed to be 3 to 6 inches today. I'm in for the day, hoping that my Netflix of My So-called Life arrives.

And reading I Capture the Castle, which is perfect. I saw the movie a few years ago but can't remember much but the sets, especially the wonderful moat that they go swimming in. My favorite house, as a kid, was this giant Victorian that I walked past on my way to and from school. It had a round tower at the top of the place; I've always wanted a room like that to read and weave and sit in.

And my elbows seem to be improving just the tiniest bit. My tendency is not to notice the getting better and to focus needlessly on the problem. So last evening, after stir-frying the zucchini and taking a trip to the supermarket, where I lifted two giant cans of chicken stock off the bottom shelf while leaning around a lady with a shopping cart, I became a pitiful heap of whining. Man, I hate getting old. But this morning I'm trying to notice that they didn't hurt when I woke up, and that I was able to lift my coffee cup down from the cupboard much more easily, and that means improvement, right? Right.