It was cold this morning. 23 frosty degrees. I realize in some parts of the country that might be considered downright balmy, but in the Pacific Northwest, that’s about as cold as it ever gets. I’m going on my 20th winter here, and I speak from experience: it drops into the teens occasionally, and once bottomed out at 12 degrees, but in many winters it doesn’t get any colder. So, when the alarm clock went off this morning at 4:50, I was anything but pleased. Our bed was so warm…so soft…so comfy. Nothing but cold awaited us out of the covers. The last thing in the world I wanted to do was leave that warm and cozy haven, but we have been making an effort to attend the gym more regularly, so I forced myself to get up.
And proceeded to grumble incessantly to Tara.
“It’s 25 degrees!” I told her after consulting the thermometer in the kitchen.
“Hmm,” she replied, not sounding all that impressed. She was no more enthusiastic when the temperature inched down to 24, and then 23. I, on the other hand, was conveying this information to her excitedly, as if relaying a play-by-play in an NFL game in which the wide receiver was racing down to the 30-yard line…then the 20…the 10…
When she had the nerve to yawn in my face.
“What are you doing?!” I asked.
“Yawning,” she replied. Duh.
“Did you see the frost on the rooftops?”
“Yeah. Sure. I guess.”
Yeah? Sure? I guess?! It’s not every day that our rooftops are coated in frost. If you squinted your eyes and turned your head just the right way, it almost looked like snow, and that gave the whole neighborhood a Norman Rockwell feel. The only people who feel ambivalent over Normal Rockwell scenery are those who enjoy kicking puppy dogs for sport. Good lord. Who did I marry here?!?!
Oh. Right. The person who used to live in Island Park, Idaho. Where the average annual snowfall is 214.8 inches. No wonder a little frost on the rooftops was nothing to that wife o’ mine. OK, I get it…it’s all about perspective. I don’t blame her for calling me a “wimp” when I was shivering in the car on the drive to the gym, my teeth chattering in time to the rock ‘n roll music on the radio. So what I don’t understand is, why is she piling the blankets on when it’s 66 in the living room at the same time I’m peeling off layers of clothes because I’m burning up?! There’s no rhyme or reason to this madness.
They’re calling for this cold airmass to remain in place for a few more days, so I’m sure there will be more grumbling and more frosty roofs and more unimpressed Taras to contend with.
The cold weather did make me realize that Thanksgiving is only a week away. Which means, incessantly nonstop Christmas music is a mere 8 days away. How did that happen?! Up until a week ago, we weren’t even sure what we were doing for Turkey Day. Turns out we’re hosting. (Who am I kidding? I figured all along that’d be the case). Don’t get me wrong, I love hosting. It’s our one day of the year to show off our cooking prowess to a house full of guests.
But it’s our one day of the year to have to tackle a mountain of dirty dishes, too. And all the other cleanup afterwards. This is called “mixed feelings,” folks.
However, with the pending short sale and next year’s living situation up in the air, this year will probably be the last Thanksgiving in the townhouse. So that’s kind of bittersweet. Only seems fitting that we’d host again this year. We may be living in an apartment a year from now, and relying on somebody else to do all the work. Hint, hint…somebody else.
What’cha doing for Thanksgiving next year, Tori Nelson? I hear the South is nice…