Wednesday, January 29, 2014

                           WIND CHILL:  Twelve Below Sanity

Will I ever be warm again? I am typing in ear-muffs, wrapped in two blankets and praying my toes don’t fry on the space heater under my desk. I can’t effen get warm!

Will I have to resign myself to a lifetime of nubs?* Must I carry around a month’s supply of Anti-viral Puffs to get from the kitchen to the bathroom? Do I have to seriously consider using the oven for the first time since 1972? wtf?

Just once I would like to turn on the gas fireplace and not have to fret that we are going to run out of Propane any second. Propane is up higher than a hippie in Colorado, and those of us on a fixed income will soon need a fix. Denver? Are you there?

My fingers are frozen. As I just learned how to turn my computer to “thumb mode,” maybe the other eight will thaw. I have chapped lips, and winter hasn’t even begun. If someone would just come out with a vodka lip balm, winter would be tolerable.

When I wake up in the morning, I have to use both arms to lift the covers off, and then putting my bare feet on the hardwood floors is like stepping onto a glacier. 

Sex is out of the question. I can’t get into frozen foreplay.

Why would I want to leave the house? The wind chill is higher than the mayor of Toronto.

My favorite ice cream dessert doesn’t call to me. Taking a bite of Caramel Delight would be like putting my tongue on a flagpole. 

My teeth are chattering. I sound like a tap-dancing convention.

I know none of you feels sorry for me, especially because I live in North Carolina.

*Not knowing the spelling of nubs, I looked it up in spellcheck. All I could find was the definition of  Portuguese teats.