It's one of those prototypical New England December days. The ground is white, the air is gray, the trees look made of a combination of gunmetal and lichens. In your skin you can feel a memory embedded in your DNA -- it's the memory of cold mornings waking in the cave, the fire is out, the animal furs have slipped off or been hogged by the hairy young lovely you dragged back after a skirmish with the warring tribe, and there's something falling from the sky that makes you very confused and angry. It's neither raining nor snowing. It's some kind of slushy ice falling from the sky. And today as in the days of the cave, you can do nothing but grunt and shiver and try to move on.
I am glad my cave is insulated and that the fire never goes out. It's cold and raw and when I turn the doorknob to let the dogs out I can feel the ice right in the palm of my hand. If it weren't for the kids, I'd be typing from bed. Dressed, of course, but on the bed wrapped in a blanket with a hat on.
Speaking of ice (as in snow as in cocaine), I get the sense that Amy Winehouse is in big trouble. I'm no superfan, mind you, but I do like her singing. She's going to need to do a lot more singing and soon if she is going to keep spending every penny and pound of her recording and touring profits of blow, crack, and smack. Have a look at The Superficial today to see what I mean. Winehouse is wasting away to nothing.
Speaking of wasting away to nothing, as each new sunrise graces the eastern seaboard, I am reminded of just how much more hair has fallen from the top of my head never to be seen or heard from again. It goes without saying that, at the very least, I am losing my hair to the ravages of male pattern baldness and not the side effects of some high-intensity chemical treatment to stave-off a dread disease. And that, Martha Stewart, is a good thing. Furthermore, I was never all that happy with the hair I had before. Sure, all the negative remarks and tirades I blustered in my hair's direction probably had something to do with its decision to take early retirement, but I would do a lot to have it all again. And why? Well, I'm not exactly tough enough to deny that the cold weather makes my head cold.
So what I am looking for this winter is the perfect hat to wear indoors all day. When I go out these days, I always wear a hat. In the spring and fall and on milder summer days, I wear the ubiquitous baseball cap. Red Sox. I also switch off to a sweet Wyoming cap (purchased five years ago at the gift shop in Little America) that is actually a little small or a Yellow Dog Outfitting cap. I have a slew of other baseball caps, but they do not appear frequently in the rotation. And anyway, let's face it, wearing a baseball cap all day indoors is a little too much like being Mike Love, the Hated Beach Boy. At some point, kids, we have to stop wearing baseball hats all the time.
I know I know I know. Gentlemen do not wear hats indoors. Thank you, Sister Irene. I am on that etiquette like a nun on the rosary, but you have to understand two things: One, I am trying to keep the heat turned down this winter to keep the utility bills lowered. Two, I sit typing with my back to a cold, north-facing window in a room that opens onto the outdoors many times throughout the day. When people are around, besides the kids, I'd doff the cap. But during the day when no one else is around? A nice, indoor hat would do.
Baby, it's cold outside. And I am okay with that. I like winter. I like snow. I like the raw, bare-tree desolation of winter. It is food for the creative soul. Hell, I am even a tad melancholy for the days when I had to walk the dogs in this four, five, and six times -- or even more. It brought me a certain defeatist joy, like this was the world in which I was supposed to suffer and isn't it serenely beautiful?
So Mondays are okay, as long as you have the right hat. And as long as you aren't addicted to blow, crack, and smack.
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