Yesterday was cold. Unreasonably, though not unseasonably cold. I could not stay warm at work and had to jump up and down from my chair like a demented jack-in-the-box to keep the blood circulating properly. I even took calls standing up, jiggling from one foot to the other, trying not to let my teeth chattering drown out the voice on the other end. Whenever I sat down an icy draft from under the door played over my ankles and crept up my pants legs like the chilly fingers of an importunate blind date. Wait, that's not the image I want. Like the icy digits of, of, of wossname. Doom. Doom? Doom isn't icy. Doom is kind of black and oppressive. Fear is icy, but I wasn't afraid of anything. Okay, I was somewhat afraid I was going to say something rude after the third phonecall from people asking if I could get them a cheap airfare to someplace warm for Christmas. Ahahahahaha, I said cheerfully, no.
(The expanded answer is "No, not cheap. Yes, if you're willing to spend $700 apiece to get to Hawaii or Mexico, and then an additional couple hundred a night on hotel rooms. There's space up until the last minute as long as you're willing to pay last minute prices." I think this is self-evident, but quite a few people live in a dream world where last minute equals fire sale prices. There are deals on the Internet from time to time, but you don't usually get your choice of travel times or dates, and it won't do you any good at all for popular warm resorts at the busiest season of the year. Cleveland, maybe.)
So I spent the day freezing my hiney off, and then I got home and it was pretty cold in the house which takes a longish time to warm up, so I dashed around wearing 14 layers of clothes because I was really chilled by now. Natasha, my permanently miffed cat, tried to claw me when I picked her up to lovingly bury my cold face in her thick, warm fur coat, and I didn't even notice because of the layers. I only noticed when I found snags on my favorite alpaca sweater, and then I shrieked and cursed. Natasha was indifferent. I ran over to the clubhouse and climbed into the blissfully hot waters of the jacuzzi, spending 25 minutes soaking. By the time I was done I couldn't see the chair two feet away from me because of the steam. I was so relaxed I could barely pull on my sweats. I didn't notice the cold for hours after that.
I took Dixie out for a fairly short last walk. It was 1 a.m., and I ought to have been in bed. Locked up, turned off lights, went through various nighttime preparations involving mysterious unguents and mystic oils, leapt into bed displacing cats right and left, turned out light, promptly found myself wide awake. Lay still for awhile, trying to think sleepy thoughts, instead ruminating over idiocy of Republicans who voted for impeachment then tried to cover hineys by telling the Senate censure was actually a better idea after all, turned over restlessly a lot, realized sleep further away than ever, attempted to count blessings, started drifting off as warmth from heat-generating husband and surrounding cats seeped into my muscles, finally fell asleep.
BWEEP
"What the...?" A piercing shriek momentarily yanks me awake. All is quiet. Dog snoring lightly at foot of bed. Slip back into sleep.
BWEEP
It's the smoke alarm. Oh god. Oh god oh god oh god it's the smoke alarm there must be smoke somewhere maybe the Christmas tree is on fire except I turned off all the lights and it couldn't really be on fire and I couldn't really be about to die in my sleep a sad Christmas story in all the papers because my pets aren't unduly bothered so it must just be snnnnnnnnnrkzzzzzzzzz...
BWEEP
Aw, man. The alarm battery is going dead, isn't it? Too tired, too cold to get up.
BWEEEEEEEEEEEP
Sleep impossible. For John, too, despite sleeping through the smoke alarm sound because I, bad wife that I am, wake him up. The dog is awake, now, too, and acting oddly, running back and forth to the door. It's unbelievably cold. What is it? What is it, girl? John detaches the battery, then joins me in trying to decipher Dixie's antics. She's very anxious to go outside. At two in the morning? Is she trying to tell us something? I walk through the house looking for burglars, fire, alien invasion. John gets dressed and takes her out for a walk. I go back to bed and read a magazine, tensely expecting disaster.
John comes back grumbling. Dixie just wanted to go for a walk, apparently. Her tiny doggie brain said, ooh, people getting up, must be time to go! We all go back to bed. Everyone is now mad and cold and miffed, except Dixie who's happy as the proverbial clam and promptly falls asleep curled up in a big, furry ball.
The icy digits of fear joined the black oppression of doom last night. I'll take the cold any day.
