It takes Chuck a few minutes to see that something isn't right. We usually wake hot, our skin wet and rubbery. You could could draw a star on our cheeks and it would be visible for a few seconds at least. So why are we freezing today?
"I'm concerned about this" he says.
He bolts out of bed, goes downstairs, says something I don't understand loudly, goes to the basement.
I worry that we're becoming too traditional in our roles. Me, woman: cook meals, carry baby. Him, man: check furnace, shovel sidewalk. I scroll through Facebook on my cold phone, then decide to Google "Broken Furnace." Me, woman: Google problem.
He's back in bed a few minutes later with a report (it's 54 degrees downstairs, the furnace is blowing and a light is blinking) and his laptop (for diagnostics).
Within an hour and a half a furnace guy has fixed the furnace and we're creeping up in the 60-something degrees and all is right with the world again.
Maybe a massage will push my migraine out of my pores or at least smother it in scented lotion. This is already a success because for the first time in months I am -- through the virtue of massage technology -- able to lay on my stomach. My, why they must be C cups by now, and my stomach a solid mass of PG cup, are positioned into specific divots in a massage cushion designed for those with monstrous, aching orbs.
She's playing instrumental versions of classic rock layered with sounds of rain and babbling brooks. Sometimes the water sounds like the applause in a live album. A polite crowd responding favorably to a sitar version of "Bridge Over Troubled Water."
I wonder if I spend too much of my massage thinking and not enough time being in the moment or whatever.
This is a small muted room designed to have a cave-like stinginess toward its admittance of The Outer World. You can, for instance, totally ignore the face that a few doors away someone's pubic area is getting the attention of a purebred at Westminster. Except on this day there is a beer festival being held in the courtyard of the building that hosts the salon. There is a bonfire, a polar plunge, people have brought their own mugs. I'm guessing it's lederhosen-optional.
Most of all, the fun is guided by a man with a megaphone. A MEGAPHONE.
This cave is cave-like enough to block out the actual words he is saying, but not quite cave-like enough to silence his excitement levels. This is distracting. And not. At times like this I like to think: Isn't everyone so lucky that I'm not the kind of person to be a total bitch about this? Which is, I guess, a form of being a bitch.
Regardless, the massage turned out to be only a satisfactory experience. It needed more thumbs. She did something that I called, in my mind, The Ski Slope Maneuver, that really got the goods on my neck. And she busted out her forearm to ward off a knot, which was also exceptional.
It snowed on Friday night, large quantities of the stuff that is so light and fluffy it seems like it was left over from a movie set. Couple falling in love at Christmastime in Central Park. A place where mittens match scarves match hats.
This has caused havoc in the mall parking lot where everyone is having a contest to park worse than the people they are parked between. On top of that there are new snow hills meaning it is impossible to drive through some of the aisles. One must drive in, find aisle full, find snow hill blocking exit, back out of aisle.
I will later repeatedly refer to this as Parking Like a Shit Fuck.
"Why am I here anyway?" I wonder. "Was this just a reflex or do I actually need something from the mall?"
I decide that even if there was something I needed, I no longer need it back enough to be a part of this idiocy, so I drive home.
The Migraines have turned my life into 1. Wake; 2. 8-Hour Commitment; 3. Lie in bed with a washcloth on my forehead. I'm not reading, I'm not writing, I'm not watching tube. On Friday I figured out that if I lie on my right side with a comfortable pillow under my noggin I can watch TV pain free for at least a while.
I ended up watching my backlog of "The Carrie Diaries."
This, friends, is terrible. I'm not a "Sex and the City" person anymore and feel a little shame that I ever was. A few years ago I re-watched some of the DVDs I'd collected and found Carrie so self-centered and loathsome that I couldn't handle it. This show revisits her high school years and it's blerg.
Our hero is a self-satisfied teen in love with Manhattan and getting an introduction to the club-cosmos-fashion scene while she continues to attend high school in Connecticut. In one scene she sips her first pink drink and coos and decides, at Age 16, that This Will Be Her Signature Drink. Lather, rinse, repeat. Her first pair of shoe-shoes, etc.
Still, I'm a sucker for shows about teens with good hair -- and I sort of hoped to snooze on and off -- and I ended up watching six episodes.
Then I watched "Juno." Twice. Well, 1.5 times.
The "It's (Insert Day of Week) and I'm Boring" is a series that Jodi and I do to pay homage to the beauty of old-school blogging.