For as lacklustre as the final 20th Century World Literature class was, the last Poetery Workshop was lovely, spirited, and the best meeting we had all semester. In addition to my baguette and artichoke spinach dip, there were mini quiche, 2 bottles of red wine, two variations on the theme of olive tapanade, a spicy mozarella cheese, white cheddar, crackers, grape tomatos marinaded in olive oil and balsamic vinegar, multigrain bread, and chocolate truffles. A veritable European picnic while savoring the poems we'd each brought. The general consensus is that we should have had food at every meeting. Why hadn't we thought of that before! Food and Literature (or Poetry) are meant for each other. Poetry and Wine are the ultimate compatriots.

At the risk of sounding hoakey, there was such poetic justice for me, personally, at the last class. One of the other women said that the poem I brought reminded her of the very first poem I'd shared--because of two words that were used in both pieces. I told her how complimented I was, not that she was saying she liked it or disliked it, but that she remembered. And because I'd had a few glasses of wine, I said to everyone "And by the way, that was a real train I was on; It wasn't a metaphor."

So we are all (save for one person--the girl with the awful penchant to annoy me--who after a 3-week hiatus, came last night, about an hour in to the class)going to continue to meet up, perhaps monthly to keep workshopping our stuff together. And we have plans to meet up at Minas in Hampden for a Sunday afternoon reading on the 19th.

Unrelated.

I have been dreaming lately about a former boss--the truly awful woman I supported at the Dupont Circle job in DC in 1999. Last night she and I were shopping for handbags and Tiffany lamps.