January 2010

Hedonistic Winter Naps

/ wvfurandroot / 12 Comments

Nap Haven

The art of the nap is one I developed late in life. From the age of 3 to, oh, 40 or so, I could no more take a nap than I could sing lead at the Metropolitan Opera. (Trust me, folks, I cannot sing.)

Naps are a gift most wondrous.

The best ones are the ones that sneak up on you. Planning a nap sucks the essence out of it – like planning a laugh. The pleasure of the nap is inversely related to the intention to nap. Conducting one’s day in productivity mode and then suddenly finding oneself in bed drowsy with increasing lethargy is oh so good.

Even though I’ve discovered the joy of naps, I am still unable to sleep anywhere other than in a bed – preferably my bed.

Even sweet Babette needs a blanket these days.

Winter naps differ significantly from summer naps. Both are pleasant. The winter nap, however, also serves as a body warmer. Recently, and particularly, I’ve enjoyed the dichotomy of being snuggled in my bed while gazing at the frozen tundra which is my yard outside the French doors. Listening to the wind cause the barn to grown and creak has been a nice backdrop to puppy snores and the hum of the nonstop furnace.

Since I haven’t, for the most part, worn anything but pajamas for days, I’ve enjoyed the feel of thick silk against my sinfully high thread count sheets. We hedonists enjoy such pleasures. There have been incidents of crawling into bed in jeans and a sweatshirt. There’s something somewhat illicit about burrowing into the bed clothed in something other than nightwear. Napwear?

I’ve been running at full tilt for months. I knew I was exhausted, but I’d underestimated the extent of it. When downtime hit, I had a number of ambitious projects lined up. I knew I’d need a couple of days of R&R before launching said projects, so I did plan naps.

I’m not sure you could call them naps. I woke in the morning, drank a half a pot of coffee, went upstairs to change clothes and, instead, ended up crawling back in bed where, with some resemblance to a coma, I clocked another 3 or 4 hours of deep, drool on the pillow sleep. I’d get back up, drink the second half of the pot of coffee and end up back in bed for another 3 or 4 hours of sleep before giving up on it all and just going to bed for the night. I reckon that I slept 18 hours a day for a week or so.

I should be well and thoroughly caught up on sleep by now, but it appears maybe not. [The first order of business tomorrow is to make arrangements to have my thyroid re-tested – even if exhausted this is an insane amount of sleep.]

Eyes of Love

If not for the impending arrival of the houseguest and Chef Boy ‘R Mine’s arrival, I think there’s a good chance that absolutely nothing of those ambitious plans would have been accomplished. Mind you, I didn’t make a dent in any of them, but some order has been restored in my living environment which is a great comfort.

Today is my last day, for sure, of downtime. Last Sunday should have been, but snow storms, car problems, plumbing problems, and electrical problems kept me home much of this week. These problems allowed me good time with Chef Boy ‘R Mine and Girlfriend O’His, but the New Normal is knocking on the door and it’s time to get my stick shift out of neutral and rev the engine.

While I’m not planning a nap, I think one is likely.

Puppy Pile

The puppies are champion nappers and if I do succumb to one, I’ll put them in bed with me where Trudy will serve as a foot warmer, Willy as a stuffed animal to clutch as I snooze, and Babette slumbering on top of the covers while completing the tableau of the Still Life with Snoring.

A normal nap does involve street clothes unless it’s summer and I’ve been gardening. In such cases, I strip down and really wallow in the texture of the bed linens. But it is winter. Most likely, this afternoon will find me in jeans, sweatshirt and accompanied by puppies snoozing (and drooling on the pillow) away a couple of hours. (A pox on the power nap! Anything less than a couple hours can’t properly be called a nap.)

It’s all good. While the past ten days have been anything but Total Zen in 2010, I’m feeling pretty grounded and centered. Restored, if you will. The renewal of the New Normal schedule of my life seems doable. A couple of weeks ago, I was ready to wave the white flag of surrender. The opportunity to nap has made all the difference.

A House Guest

/ wvfurandroot / 8 Comments

Biscotti for the creme brulee.

Tomorrow I am expecting a house guest I’ve never met. I’ve been in rather a panic getting the house into some sort of order to receive visitors. To some extent, I’ve said screw it. But still. . .there’s a need for basic cleanliness and order.

I’m very excited. I didn’t have a lot of advance notice which is probably good. I’d have driven myself and everyone else mad.

Chef Boy ‘R Mine has arrived as well. He’s been cooking up a feast and helping to clean. The barn is pert near always two steps forward, one step back – improvement is made in tiny increments with each project uncovering a larger project. This has been no different, but since I’ve grown to expect such things, it doesn’t produce any extra stress. OK, not much extra stress.

[The mess in the plumbing closet was stressful, but I’m Scarlett O’Hara-ing it for the moment. You know – the old I’ll think about it tomorrow.]

Good food, but what a mess.

My house guest has never seen snow. If she’s never seen snow, it’s a given she’s never experienced this kind of cold. Florida born and bred, Guest O’Mine is in for a rude awakening. We’ve borrowed a 4×4 for the airport pickup to avoid her having to trek the hill (in the snow) dragging her suitcases behind her. We’re thoughtful people, we are.

The food, if not the surroundings, will be stellar. The kitchen, however, has been one step forward, two steps back. When I went to bed last night, it was OK, this is adequate. Hah!

Taking a break.

The kitchen is a mess.

The boy has sliced and diced, stirred and whirled, baked, sautéed, chopped, poured, splashed, dashed and whipped.

The food will be fabulous.

At present, we’re both taking a break. Mind you, there’s not any time for breaks. There is still much to do. Much. Much just to get to the minimum. He’s chatting away on his laptop, puppies happily nearby, and I’m blogging on my laptop. I think we both have a problem with priorities. Or maybe we don’t. Making connections with people is more important than ones with Mr. Clean.  Right?  Right.

[insert musical interlude here]

[I swear on my honor, that I wrote all of the above before the following event occurred. Scout’s honor. Honest. Absolutely. With no exaggeration or storyteller’s license involved at all.]

I’m now officially amused. I sent Child O’Mine up to the bathroom to help me switch out the toilet seat. There was a bolt I couldn’t get to budge. The bolt is held on by a plastic wingnut. We did this and then we did that. And there were a lot of exclamations of WTF! So we did some more of this and we did some more of that – all of it involving wrenches, needle-nosed pliers, flathead screwdrivers, and much cursing. Nothing. And it wasn’t that the bolt wouldn’t move – it moved all over the place. The top of the bolt could be turned in the opposite direction of the bottom part of the bolt. WTF?

[Things like this routinely happen in the barn. I’ll eventually get around to the thermostat story.]

We pondered things for a bit. Chef Boy ‘R Mine said, “Wait. I’ve got an idea.”

Now he’s been cooking up a storm. When he comes here, he brings the tools of his trade with him. Since he’s planning crème brulee, he had a kitchen torch – a twinkie torch by anyone’s standards – used to brown meringue and that sort of thing..

Creme brulee carmelizer or plumbing tool? It's both.

We melted that wingnut off. OK, he did. After I was sure the toilet wasn’t going to explode, I guffawed and told him he was genius.

 [He takes after me. I once solved a pesky countertop installation problem with a bread knife.]

A $20 Williams & Sonoma cooking torch as a plumbing tool – who’d have thunk it? Me and Chef Boy ‘R Mine, that’s who.

I can’t wait to tell the girlfriend, OOPS, I mean, houseguest this story.  (Damn, let the cat out of the bag.)

Now, I’ve got the giggles, but I’ve got to go finish that bathroom now.

[Giggle. Giggle. Guffaw.]

Crème brulee, anyone?