Grimy

Grey January,
Confused groundhog quivering.
Why bother peeking?



All month has felt like November, or March. The cold that isn't quite cold, the warm that isn't really warm. Air polluted, or a sniveling, nasty little wind holding the haze back marginally. No snow, paltry rain, everything brown and grimy. The light is low, without the aid of white snow to reflect and invigorate. A tepid bath, lukewarm weak tea, slightly moldy gravy over grainy, lumpy potatoes, thin socks with rough seams and a hole in the toe.

I'd relish a blizzard, a frigid blast, hell - a damn ice storm would be greeted with glee. Something wintry! I said I wouldn't have wanted to be in Boston last weekend, but I think I was wrong. I wouldn't have wanted to travel to work there, but to walk through the storm, oh, my, yes, yes please.



We heard the sounds, cat-like thumps of some sort, although we were unable to identify the source, or where said cat was. Intermittent.

Then a more pronounced thump, whoosh, gurgle, drip-drip-drip. Ah, the vase of roses. Eleanor sat beside the tipped vase on the table, with a clear look of, "Huh. How did that happen?" on her unconcerned face. I ran for a towel, and we giggled as we mopped up the table and floor, removed the cloth. Cats.

Eleanor has been known to like roses, sitting by them, rubbing her face into the arrangement and into the vase. Moby likes them as well, he sniffs at them, chews (then horks up) the leaves. I get them (from Trader Joes, natch) with the intention of sharing. She apparently just got a bit too enthusiastic this time.