House blend

Sitting in a house on top of a San Francisco hill is not unlike being on a ship. The wind makes the walls rattle; from where I sit, only the very top of some distant trees is visible, topped by the fog rolling in at high speed. It's a constant presence.
And it's nice weather for November.
I find myself reviewing all the warm items of clothing I should decidely have packed and didn't, in my eternal optimism. Denial. Whatever. So I wear just about everything at once, and alter the order of the layering every day to look like I have many more clothes than I really do.
I'm teaching gf to act French; she coaches me in acting american. She makes a much more convincing job of it than I do, I feel. She's got the shrug all worked out, and her disinterested glare is nothing short of perfection. I can't get the 'ohmygawdthisis justaboutthebestthingintheworldever' quite right. I'll keep trying.