Sunny, cold, snow flurries

Yesterday was the kind of wet, cold day that chills your bones. The morning snow soon faded into rain, but it was miserable. And my mood matched it. I got out when I should have stayed home. So today I stayed home all day when it was cold but sunny. It surprised me at how much better my disposition was this morning, just because it was sunny and wonderfully bright outside. Still very cold and supposed to get worse, until Saturday morning when we'll have a low of 28. Jordan and I were discussing cold tonight, and she said there are different kinds of cold. I thought she meant dry versus wet, but she said, "You know, vacation cold is different!" My idea of vacation cold involves a roaring fire and a good book, preferably in Santa Fe.
Jacob was here tonight and my crowning achievement was to teach him the first lines of "Jingle Bells." Couldn't remember the next lines for a while, finally got them, but he was disinterested.
A retirement day: I told myself I'd work on the mystery, but I didn't. I piddled all morning--emails, yoga, washing my hair, doing I don't know what. It was the first time I'd done my yoga in over a week, and I was apprehensive, told myself I'd just go slow and if I was shaky, so be it. Well, I was shaky but not as bad as I expected, so now next time it will be eaiser. Then it was noon, and I decided "What the heck" and went back to the mystery I'm reading, The Morning Show Murders by Al Roker. I'm a fan of the TODAY show and of Roker, and the mystery while not the best I've ever read is good. I think his name and fame helped him get it published, but the voice that comes through is his and that makes it fun. Plus, instead of a weatherman, he's a chef with his own restaurant. (It's clear, even on the real morning show, that food is his avocation.) There's not a lot about food but enough. I'm not sure about squab and oyster in a white wine/caviar/who-knows-what sauce.
The only work I did today was to puzzle. I have this great setting and pair of characters for a new series, but I can't figure the murder at the middle. Who is killed? Why? By whom? Jamie once said I wrote historical fiction because I was so poor at plotting and could take plots from history. I hope he hasn't jinxed me. I can see this all coming together in my head, except the crucial element. Oops, just had a brilliant idea and had to write it down. Now the problem is do I start on this new series or work on the draft of the one in progress. Common sense tells me the latter, but I sure am drawn to getting those new characters down on paper.