It’s cold and raining today. A lot of people I know are happy about this. I think because it’s been 89.9 degrees and about the same extreme in percent of humidity for a few weeks now. That’s very unusual for far north Minnesconsin (Minnesota/Wisconsin—take your pick. The line blurs here in the woodsy forest), but hey, who said anything about climate change?
Honestly, I welcome the warmer-than-what-used-to-be-normal weather. Probably because I don’t have to work outside in it. I feel sorry for those people who have to work outside in a steam bath climate, but maybe they should have thought about that when they were making career choices.
Here in the rugged northland we have the heat on nine months out of the year. I live with a man who has to have air conditioned air to breathe the other three months, because of COPD and asthma and I really believe mostly it’s that he prefers a room at 62-degrees because of his freakish fast metabolism. I thank the gods every day our house was not conducive to adding central air; the polar zone is limited to one room, which I can leave when I don’t feel like wrapping up in a fleece blanket for the only three months of the year that I don’t have to be wrapped up in a fleece blanket.
So it’s cold and raining and I’m sitting in one of the not air conditioned rooms in my fleece robe wrapped up in a fleece blanket. I may as well go shopping. I can turn on the heated seats in my little VW Bug, Blucy. It’s a baby Bug and I thought Lucy was a good name, but then I thought Blucy was even better. Blucy has eyelashes on her headlights. People point at my car and smile. They are NOT laughing.
So, I’m finishing my coffee and making my shopping list. I have to make lists because I can’t remember shit these days. I’ve decided that forgetfulness is probably a hardwired biological change in aging that forces us old broads to get at least some exercise. I probably put on half of my required steps every day just walking around the house looking for something I had in my hand a few minutes ago, but can’t remember where I set it down. I put on the other half looking for what my husband misplaces and accuses me of moving. I know a place where he could put his things and never lose them.
So far my list includes:
- Ink for printer
- Goop for cat’s hairballs
- Toilet cleaner
- Gold Bond foot cream
I lead such an exciting life.
The ink is necessary to print a return merchandise label so I can return the ugly wallpaper I thought would look like a real brick backsplash in my kitchen. Actually there is a real brick wall behind the sheetrock that would look so great exposed, if I could just get the husband to leave home for a few days and get at it with the hammer and crow bar. He seems pretty content in his refrigerated man cave – I mean the living room – in his lazy man recliner. I don’t think he’s going anywhere.
Oh, and in my defense, the Gold Bond cream isn’t for me. It’s not for my husband either. It’s for my nine year old granddaughter who said, (after the brief discussion I was having with her brother about his first girlfriend who seems a little high maintenance requesting high end chocolates if he wants to buy her something) “If I had a boyfriend, I’d just ask for Gold Bond cream for my feet.”
I think she’s an old soul; she’s got the kvetching down.
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