We went to a promo presentation of Michelle Horgen’s new musical Scarlet at Powell’s Book Store in Portland last month. The songs were beautiful, the brief performances impressive. We drove over the coast range especially to see it. Tickets were on sale at the event, but I’d already bought tickets to the official Opening Night. We know the playwright and we were excited to see her. I’d supported this production since it was a 2013 Kickstarter. It is based on The Scarlet Letter, and I reread the novel in preparation. We had a reservation for the night at The Kennedy School and Gary and I talked about places to go for lunch and dinner before the play. Gary was worried about sitting still for the long play, but we planned a nap earlier in the afternoon. We planned to try sleeping in on Sunday because we were not used to being up late and because of Daylight Savings Time. The hotel had confirmed our stay.

And then last night, the hotel called to ask if we were checking in. Our reservation was for Friday, the woman said. Friday the 9th, not Saturday the 10th. I had printed off the reservation and the tickets. I had written it incorrectly on my calendar, had it stuck on my head as a Saturday event. It was already after 8pm. We live two hours from the show. My first thought was that I hoped someone else had gotten our tickets since it was sold out and there was a waiting list.

My second thought was that I am an idiot.

Gary assures me, “I am not going to mention this to anyone because I love my wife. It is a sign I was not ‘hoovering’ over her enough.” I am writing this blog post as he says this and handing me a cup of coffee. Okay, I am a most fortunate idiot.

The term ended this week after Wednesday’s final, and I completed grades for my college writing class. A student, reviewing his final grade at 89% online, emailed to ask if there was anything he could do to raise his grade. I had not yet rounded up, so that will be good news for him, though he has not thanked me and probably won’t. They were a nice class and I wish I’d had more time with all of them. Learning to write well is not something that happens in a few weeks, but there is hope it will happen.

Thursday, I worked for twelve hours on a novel manuscript that grew from a short story I wrote to apply to graduate school. Friday I worked most of the day on that novel and printed it off for Gary to read over the next week. I contacted friends to ask for a reading. Two have agreed. I thought Saturday would involve the drive to Portland and not enough sleep. I finally researched the person who asked for a complete manuscript in response to my agent queries. He seems an intelligent person and properly flattering to a potential client, but I knew he had only skimmed and not actually read my manuscript. His agency is a good one, but my online search suggests he is probably not a licensed agent. He is a valued member of the agency’s team, and perhaps he is working on his agent credentials. He asked me to rewrite a section of my novel, a section I knew was weak. Agent or not, he seems to know what he is about. I am doing exactly what he’s asked for, and more. Today, the Saturday morning after Michelle’s opening last night, we will dive to Portland and do some shopping. Sunday we will try to sleep in. Daylight Savings Time will cost us an hour. It is the anniversary of the Madrid train bombing and Fukushima.

Tomorrow is also the anniversary of my mother-in-law’s death in 1990.

The working title of my novel is Everybody’s Mother Dies.