There is a temperature differential of nearly 30 degrees between the first and second stories of our house. It's quite possible that the first floor is comprised of primarily porous wall structures; since this is where the thermostat is, our furnace is working 24/7 to try and keep up with heating the southern quadrant of Powderhorn Park. The upstairs seems to be tighter than a drum, so walking up feels like taking a magical carpet ride to the deepest and hottest parts of Saharan Africa. I've tried tweaking the radiator controls on the upper units, but since that hasn't been tried since the Nixon administration, they are steadfastly reluctant to budge. I coaxed the bathroom register into moving clockwise, but that only seemed to make it hotter.
There's no scientific reason for a major stationary front not to exist on my staircase.
I had wanted to write a little more about the Count last night, but it slipped my mind, hasty as I was to try and procure cribby sleeping arrangements for Lily...thanks Kayt for stepping up, we appreciate it! Anyway: I have found myself becoming deeply envious of the Count. His whole existence, the very fiber of his being and the source of his blissful happiness, is the simple act of counting. What great simplicity are his motives. This is a man whose job/hobby/reason for living are all one in the same: he just wants to count. If you've seen any segments with the Count, you know that nothing gives him greater pleasure than this. In one recent bit, he was counting the grains of sand on the beach, and he was GIDDY with the thrill of it. For most people of sound mind, this would equate to some sort of private hell; to the Count, it is an average Tuesday in an average week during his life of living his greatest fantasy. Counting. You have to admire his singularity of purpose. Would we trade spots with the Count if we could, knowing eternal happiness is only a string of integers away?
I only bring this up because I, for whatever reason, always had a hard time keeping count of bags when I loaded them onto airplanes. There were certainly a few times when this would lead to me making an educated guess to give to the flight crew, from which they derived the weight and balance for the aircraft. Gives you a warm/fuzzy feeling about flying, huh?
Okay, I'm also bringing it up to point out that Sesame Street has an unabashed member of the occult on their payroll. Does this seem okay? Why does he do it?...he doesn't need the money, he lives in a castle for the love of pete.
In case you didn't notice yet, it's going to be one of THOSE blog posts. Tangential. Derivative. Wandering.
---
Here's an interesting development in the development of our kids: Jen and I are not allowed to touch one another anymore. I haven't noticed that Abby cares too much, but Lily screams like an 8th grade dance chaperone when I even approach Jen. This was first noticed a few nights ago while we danced in front of the girls. She started urging us, "No..no ...noooo...NO...NOO!" when I put my hand around Jen's waist. We parted, then repeated it a few more times just to make sure that was it. It was. A couple days later, I put my arm around Jen's shoulder in the car, and from the backseat came a chorus of disapproval.
This is very reminiscent of when Jen and I were first dating, and her family had two long-haired dachshunds that would stare at us when we were close to one another (mostly in the kitchen). I can still picture those guys, long noses and black eyes peering up at us, silent and still. As soon as I laid a finger on Jen, they would bark bloody murder.
So our kids have officially reached the intelligence level of dachshunds. Sweet.
Day three hundred and twenty two. (34 days and counting...)
ps. I'm clearing out all the unposted photos from Florida. It's not this warm in MN.
Ooooohhhh, Max and Toby........
ReplyDelete