No sun makes Da dull

Today we seem to have reached the tipping point with our thaw. On the way into work, I saw more exposed earth than grainy snow. I expect when I head home only drifts and piles will be left, some of which are large enough to linger well into March even if it doesn't drop below freezing again before then (which I expect it will). I'm thankful that the warmup has been gentle enough not to cause the Apocaslush that many feared. There are puddles around, but no worse than what you'd see after a typical downpour.

Unfortunately the rise in relative humidity has made our subterranean bedroom as damp as a cave. Even with flannel sheets, I find myself shivering due to the dank. I took some real willpower to drag myself from bed this morning. In fact, I don't know how much longer I would've lain there if the cat hadn't take a swipe at my hand that ended up connecting with my face. There are enough piercing blue days in the depths of winter that I tend to forget this is the time of the Great Grayness. I don't know for sure that February has the most overcast days in the calendar; perhaps it only feels that way because we're so eager for winter to piss off for good.

In any case, I've been giving into mopeyness all week. I come home vowing to put some corner of the room in order or read a healthy chunk of a book or even just make a phone call or watch a movie. For naught--ten p.m. rolls around and I realise I've barely even managed to do any basic chores. I haven't had any luck so far this week getting nashobabear or my mom on the phone, so last night I halted my descent into maudlinness by ringing up my sister. The one good thing I can say about having to deal with so many family issues this last while is that it's brought us into closer contact; the days of going months without touching base are years in the past now. My respect for her abilities continues to deepen, which only increases how flattered I feel when she actually turns to me for advice or opinion.

It's good for me to talk to her because she represents a world (i.e. stay-at-home housewives with young children who are intelligent but not particularly intellectual) that I wouldn't have much contact with otherwise. My brothers and I have enough interests in common that we'd likely have become acquainted even if we weren't related. (Indeed, my younger brother and I ended up in the same social group in college, despite my attempts to keep distance so he could come into his own.) Me and my sister? I tell myself probably not, then she does something like remind me that she has season tickets to the Repertory Theatre of St Louis and I question that.

(no subject)

There was no man in her life at the moment, no one to ring up and tell the news to. Even if there was, she thought that lovers never know the full story of one another, only know the bit they meet, never know the iceberg of hurts that have gone before, and therefore are always strangers, or semi-strangers, even in the folds of love. (Edna O'Brien, "A Rose in the Heart of New York")