Before I move on with my day, with my work, with this silly good-for-distraction post, I must take a minute to pause and reflect on what happened in Oklahoma yesterday—the destruction, the devastation, the children. Oh, the children. We were just sitting and giggling about tiny, silly earthquakes that make their way to Ontario and make our desk lamps sway, and then, well, this. It’s just too much. Too much. Check out Whoorl’s post for many quick and easy ways that you can help.
For the past week, I have woken up with the sun and the birds, singing their Cinderella-esque morning sing-song tune. The sky has been several shades of reds and oranges and yellows. It’s really quite beautiful.
Or, you know, it would be, if it wasn’t the butt-crack of dawn, hours before I actually want to open my eyeballs and face the day.
So, why am I waking up so early, you ask?
It’s on account of the windows. And that they are open. And the fact that there are masses of trucks doing various truck-like tasks to the end of my street, where they are currently putting up a cul de sac filled with the last of the best homes in our neighborhood. Apparently, construction likes to begin in the wee hours of the morning, when most of the neighborhood is tucked in their beds, sleeping comfortably.
But not me—I am wide awake. Because of the windows. And that they are open.
Why are they open, you ask?
It’s on account of my husband of fifteen years. And that twice a year, our marriage comes thisclose to ending over the windows.
Each autumn, as the temperature rapidly drops and the foliage turns every color of the rainbow, the two of us engage in the dance of the heater. Can we turn it on, my extremities are cold? No, not yet. Put on a sweater. Can we turn it on now, I may possibly have hypothermia—is that when your nose turns black. I mean, I’m starting to look like Walter Matthau of here? No, not yet. Put on two sweaters. Get under the down blanket. Put on some socks. Can we turn it on now, I can’t feel my limbs anymore? No, not yet. Woman, you would never make it in the Arctic.
Each spring, as the temperatures finally, finally rise and our wonderful city of Toronto turns from deep winter to deep summer completely overnight, the two of engage is a similar dance to that of the heater, only this time it’s the dance of the air conditioner. Can we turn it on, I’m sweating in places I didn’t know you could sweat? No, not yet. Just take off all of those layers. Seriously, Ali, take off your hoodie. I’m not paying good money so you can wear a hoodie in the house. Can we turn it on now, I want to literally crawl out of my skin. No, not yet. And I think you are misusing the word literally. Can we turn it on now, our children are filled with rage? No, not yet. And they may have gotten my skin coloring, but they certainly got your week constitution.
We’ll call this one Rage Against The Windows, shall we?
Anyone have a couch for me to sleep on? I’m an easy guest, as long as there are no open windows. I might have three sweaty and ragey children in tow. But they do dishes—and they bake. One even babysits. Anyone?