The tree's down, I've torn the Christmas schedule off the fridge, and starting tomorrow (uh, today - it's already after midnight) I get two days off. The holidays are over and, as always, I'm glad.
Yesterday's snow was tolerable. No, yesterday's snow was beautiful. I had to head down to Etown to work, but it wasn't too bad on 65. I never really dropped the Maxx below 60 all the way down. Up here in River City, just enough snow to cover over the dirt and make things look nice. I don't usually enjoy snow anymore, but this was nice.
The cold, however, I can live without.
Our house here on Goss, though apparently insulated fairly well, isn't really meant for the weather. When it was first built, the attic and the basement weren't lived in, and the breakfast room hadn't been added onto the back of the kitchen. The living room, dining room, and both the downstairs bedrooms (the extra bedroom and Sharri's craft room) are warm and toasty, but no heat gets up to our bedroom, or down to the TV/music room, which is where we spend the vast majority of our time.
With that in mind, I'm in the living room in my old rocker typing this right now, all warm and toasty. We found some cool fake fire logs for the fireplace (complete with crackling ember sound effects!) which ratcheted and glowed until the timer shut off just a couple minutes ago. Usually on Friday nights I'm up watching the NBA, but I had no interest in tonight's Cavs - Nuggets matchup. Carmelo was out, I'm starting to get sick of Bron, and I was always sick of the Big Narc . . . so I'm up here running some downtempo hip hop on the Sony and spieling on this here blog.
Tomorrow, I'm-a gonna STAY IN FUCKING BED! No, no I won't. I'll knock around the house for most of the day, doing nothing in particular. Then, by Sunday, I'll get back in the gym, finish the paint in the spare bedroom, and tear up the old carpet. And, of course, fire up the dirty grits for breakfast.
Right now, I'm gonna wrap this up, bang out a couple chords on the resonator, and then head up to bed. I need to be warm again . . .
. . . and sleep, sweet, sweet, sleep. I'm turning into an amnesiac Proust. Pray for me, you non-believers.