Things are all askew around here.
I'm not saying they're bad.
I'm just saying yesterday Silas and Ruby played, full clothed, for an hour, in a bathtub full of water balloons.With permission.
I'm saying we took our kids to Target in a raging snow-storm when they should have been in bed.
I'm saying we're a little desperate. A tinge over-cooped.
I'm saying they canceled school - again - and I've lost my will to craft. I'm not sure where that leaves us.
Are you tired of me talking about the weather?
Well, I'm tired of living the weather.
Except for the secret fact that...I sorta love it.
I feel positively mountainous. A true survival girl. Like I could strap on some snow-shoes and track an elk, or fire up a smoke signal with nothing but my bare hands and flinty resolve.
Cory and I caught a lucky hour in the coffee shop yesterday, just before it "closed early due to weather". We walked through the city streets for a solid two minutes, entombed on all sides, the air sharp and cold-scented. If I squinted my eyes just a little, I was a pioneer in a red puffy coat. I had muscular calves and wild hair. My lips were the color of cranberries and just as juicy, because dang, those pioneer ladies could rock the bare-faced look.
Don't tell anyone in my city or even the Midwest I said this, but I'm loving the suspense. I'm glued to our faux "weather" channel, where all they do is play elevator music and show a 30-second pre-taped update on a loop. It's bitterly cold out there... Winds will be picking up... Roads will be treacherous... I already know these things, but our local meteorologist is the bell and I'm the dog and I just keep coming back.
Saturday I realized, with only the quickest jab of regret or shame, that I've fully, yet unintentionally, surrendered to this new sort of living where shoes and alarm clocks were born to die and Huckle Cat is practically one of the family. It's happened, and I'm not sure how to unhappen it.
All I know is to keep walking toward the light, which in this case happens to be my down comforter, my favorite hoodie, and waffles. Or stew. Or left-over cake.
Last night, I rediscovered a bowl of Peanut Butter Cheerios, a clementine, and a sucks-you-in hardback as the height of luxury. This morning, I dined on a glazed doughnut in bed.
I've scrubbed every crevice of my lawless kitchen in potent vinegar water and made an entire Olive Garden knock-off meal too late in the day. I've read Skippyjon with all the voices swept the floor one hundred eighty times.
Our rhythms are wonky, the metronome of our existence all buggered up by the "dangerous" wind chill, no doubt.
Hours and minutes have lost their meaning.
We're stretching the limits of our imaginations and our good sense, slipping down that slope of stagnation and frustration and landing in...bliss? Is that what this is?
Maybe the snow will melt and the air will stop kicking us in the face. Maybe.
But not tomorrow and not even Tuesday.
This is the world we live in, folks. And from where I'm sitting, we may be stuck here forever, or at least for days, which in a small house with little kids in January is the same thing as forever.
This is the end.
Might as well go down with a smile, carb-loaded and cozy.