Stormy Weather

Spring hit my town earlier in the week, smacked it right upside the head. I've spent the past four days or so outside, airing my lily-white self, trying to pick up a little color. Though my ancestors hail from cool and cloudy climes, I revel in warmth - I love hot, tropical, steamy weather - and I tend to get a little depressed in the wintertime. Thus, the first days of sunny, seventy-degree weather are days I pine for, all throughout the cold seasons.

Today: pounding, lashing thunderstorms all morning long. I took my youngest child, for whom there is no bus, to school - a forty-five minute venture, 2.7 miles round trip. I mean, it was a veritable deluge out there, Noah's Own Flood. When I returned home, though - drenched to the bone and spitting nickels from the traffic - I stripped off my wet things, slipped into a laundry-crisp cotton nightie, and crawled back in the bed with Mister MacFarland.

It was heavenly. All the windows in our second-storey bedroom open to the sounds of the storm, ceiling fan whirring lazily above our heads, Mac and I stole a delicious few hours of uninterrupted slumber, stretched out flat and hand-in-hand on the king size, which you may recall that I outfitted with luxury high thread-count linens before I lost my job. God, it was grand, and all the more delightful because we felt like we were getting away with something, playing hooky, even though neither of us really had anywhere to be. Stress and tension leaked from my body, I tell you.

If you have not curled up with someone you trust lately, and slept a deep sleep in a thunderstorm, I highly recommend it. I promise you, it does a world of good for the spirits. Worth its weight in Prozac.

It was a damn good thing, too, because on my to-do list for the day was the onerous task of cleaning out the fridge. Yuck. It was fucking foul; science-experiment territory, I shit you not. But the blissful morning, shared with a fellow I like and respect, helped me gird up my loins like a (wo)man and get the job done. And not just the fridge, either - oh, no - a full kitchen scrubdown took place. Walls and doors were washed. Moldings were scrubbed of dust. Cabinets were rearranged. Pantry? Cleaned up. Laundry room? You could eat off the floor. Or the washer. Or the dryer. Take your pick, if eating off major appliances turns your crank. That shit is clean.

More storms on the radar for the next day or so. I can dig it.

Posted by Queenie at March 31, 2005 06:56 PM