mer

They declared a snow emergency in town today, and though the "emergency" part has since abated I'm still feeling very snow-day. Today feels just like a Tuesday: I'm wearing a sweater that I don't actually like much but it's comfortable, especially when you're standing a towel in the laundry room at 7:07 a.m. knowing that you'll be scraping your car twice during the day; I spent the day reading Bill Walsh's charming style guides because I have very little to do at this time of the year; I tried to eat cantaloupe at lunch and quickly realized that cantaloupe has no business in Wisconsin in December, which, come to think of it, I should have known all along; our company let us go home early with the stipulation that we wouldn't be paid for our time gone. You get the idea.

On the bright side, my current boss, who is leaving to start his own firm, privately asked me to freelance for him, and the compensation is nice. And the Super Target around the corner only sells fresh herbs with the root ball included, so I've repotted rosemary, basil and sage and they're alive thus far. So there is something green and growing on the counter.

Also, there's this. And this, which reminds me of the drinking game I always want to play: watch back-to-back episodes of Barefoot Contessa and Paula Deen, drinking every time either host plunks a whole stick of butter into a pan, claiming that it's either a) a special occasion or b) "just a squinch." You will need a whole lot of wine for this game. I hope that's okay.

Still: I had noble intentions of coming home and working on an underway poem, but who am I kidding--I'm going to camp out on the couch, listen to shitty music and read the issue of Playboy that came in the mail, then cram myself full of sweet potato fries.

Tomorrow is another day, etc.