Snow Day Decadance
We're having the snowstorm of the century here in Jersey right now. At least that's what my mom said. She may have been joking or embellishing. I'm not sure. Given everybody's comments on my recent post about mom and the memory, I think I should take it lightly. Nonetheless, it is snowing furiously and birthday plans have been postponed.
Earlier I drove my boyfriend and his friend to the start of a trail so they could hike up a mountain and camp during this snowstorm of the century. My toes get no circulation so camping in the the nearly zero weather is not an option for me until I find a cure. The roads already were a little slippery, and I drove my boyfriend's car whose tires are like ashtrays turned on their sides. No good in slippery conditions. We both have Mazdas with the tiptronic business going on for the shifting: the option for manual or automatic, how keen. He told me to use the downshift more instead of the breaks in the snow. Yeah, whatever, I thought. Even though I'm from the Midwest, any skill or brain I have for driving in the snow gets overshadowed by mild panic. And I used to own a car with stick shift, but for some lack of reason I thought the manual shift in our cars was unaccessible to me. As I drove away, or rolled away, slipping as I tried to break, I gave the downshift a whirl, however, and it's totally bad ass. I downshifted giddily all the way home.
It has occurred to me that when Mark and I slept in the tent he and his friend brought with them today, there was some room to move around in it, but really we pretty much fit into it, the two of us. Tonight there will be two 6'4" guys drunk and cold squeezed inside. It keeps me laughing like Christ.
Now I'm sitting in the basement, a decadent timeless creature. On the table in front of me are the following: a bottle of wine with a turtle on the label, along with my glass filled with wine; four magazines: Scientific American, Wired, National Geographic, and The Big Takeover; two books: Infinite Jest and the Norton Anthology of Poetry. I just finished leafing through one of the books I use for my guitar lessons. I'm kind of getting the hang of the bar chord, even though my fingers didn't want to move into that shape at first. However: the dominant 7th bar chord--root 5. (I can't find a good quick picture.) The fingers can do some fantastic, contortionist things apparently. Some day mine will be those fingers and I'll rock out on a mountaintop, wind blowing my tresses like Slash.
So here I am with all my things, guitar prone on the pool table, laptop in my lap, Elliot Smith out the speakers, with more CDs chosen into line to follow, fresh soup up on the stove. Onward, ho.
Earlier I drove my boyfriend and his friend to the start of a trail so they could hike up a mountain and camp during this snowstorm of the century. My toes get no circulation so camping in the the nearly zero weather is not an option for me until I find a cure. The roads already were a little slippery, and I drove my boyfriend's car whose tires are like ashtrays turned on their sides. No good in slippery conditions. We both have Mazdas with the tiptronic business going on for the shifting: the option for manual or automatic, how keen. He told me to use the downshift more instead of the breaks in the snow. Yeah, whatever, I thought. Even though I'm from the Midwest, any skill or brain I have for driving in the snow gets overshadowed by mild panic. And I used to own a car with stick shift, but for some lack of reason I thought the manual shift in our cars was unaccessible to me. As I drove away, or rolled away, slipping as I tried to break, I gave the downshift a whirl, however, and it's totally bad ass. I downshifted giddily all the way home.
It has occurred to me that when Mark and I slept in the tent he and his friend brought with them today, there was some room to move around in it, but really we pretty much fit into it, the two of us. Tonight there will be two 6'4" guys drunk and cold squeezed inside. It keeps me laughing like Christ.
Now I'm sitting in the basement, a decadent timeless creature. On the table in front of me are the following: a bottle of wine with a turtle on the label, along with my glass filled with wine; four magazines: Scientific American, Wired, National Geographic, and The Big Takeover; two books: Infinite Jest and the Norton Anthology of Poetry. I just finished leafing through one of the books I use for my guitar lessons. I'm kind of getting the hang of the bar chord, even though my fingers didn't want to move into that shape at first. However: the dominant 7th bar chord--root 5. (I can't find a good quick picture.) The fingers can do some fantastic, contortionist things apparently. Some day mine will be those fingers and I'll rock out on a mountaintop, wind blowing my tresses like Slash.
So here I am with all my things, guitar prone on the pool table, laptop in my lap, Elliot Smith out the speakers, with more CDs chosen into line to follow, fresh soup up on the stove. Onward, ho.
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