Tuesday, Jan. 06, 2004 - 12:30 p.m.
Greetings,
It is finally cold again here in New Orleans. With the wind chill it’s 26 degrees out, which is not that bad compared to Minnesota or upper state New York or New England, but is definitely pretty chilly here. You pack on the humidity that sticks to this city like sand sticks to a wet lollypop and it really cuts through to your very bones.
This is a place where I bring my jacket to work in the morning only to forget to bring it home at night and then I shiver to the car, but it’s not so bad. If I’d ever forgotten my jacket at work in Connecticut, the second I hit the outside stairwell, let alone opened the exit door, I would have charged right back up to my office to retrieve the lifesaver posthaste.
This morning I put on my heavy grey and black sweater and figured even with the cold (both of us had to put our bathroom heaters on before we could shower), I would be okay. Even when Tommy said, “I’m not forgetting my jacket today”, I still thought I would be able to squeak by without a jacket. But when I opened the door – brrrr.
The thing about New Orleans is that the houses are not set up for cold weather really. No storm windows (let alone screens, but I’m not going there right now). No coat closets for heaven’s sake! So it’s just inconvenient to remember a jacket in the morning.
We’ve talked about getting one of those cool coat trees to put in the living room and perhaps then I will see my jacket on the way out the door and remember to put it on. But then in the summer I will want to put all the winter stuff away because looking at a down jacket in the middle of an August heat wave just does not make sense. Even with air-conditioning. And what does an empty coat tree really say about a person?
When I was in North Carolina my mother gave me one of her old bathrobes. It’s of a velvety material that is almost, but not precisely, velour. It’s burgundy with little pink and blue threads woven in at collar and cuffs. And it zips up. So it’s more like a house coat I guess. But, hell, I use it for a nightgown since it’s not too cold and not too warm. And it zips. And it is cozy. And it matches my burgundy colored ballerina style slippers.
There’s something vaguely caftanesque about it I guess, but it’s definitely bedtime material. Mrs. Roper wouldn’t wear it to the grocery store whereas she would some of my real caftans. With the proper sort of jewelry of course.
I wear this bathrobe a lot because somehow it makes me feel like I’m ready for bed but necessarily in my pajamas just yet. And sometimes, although this is horrifying to admit, I put this robe on when I get home from work at night which is usually around 6 p.m.
Yes, my life of glamour is too much for the normal person I’m sure.
I have no idea where this entry is going, someplace I hope, because I’m really not too sure why I will want to read about my bathrobe in the months/years to come when I look back to see what my life was like on this day.
And to my friends who read this, you must be my friends indeed if you are still with me this far into my wildly out of control rambling.
I just realized my new Hobbit 2004 calendar is crooked on the cubicle wall. I must remember to fix that before Thomas comes to my cube again and passes out with the visual shock of it. He already thinks I have no visual perspective as far as *alignment* comes into play and he’d really just cringe if he could see this calendar.
While I was blathering on about my damn Hobbit calendar I thought of something really interesting to write about, but in my struggle to finish whatever I wanted to say about my sense of “alignment” I lost completely the interesting stuff.
Oh, yes. I had to deliver something to someone on my old floor this morning so I stopped in to chat with Mary Beth and Maid Marion and Pat.
What a depressing old place that floor is. Three secretaries have retired since I left and my old cube is vacant as a staring glass eye in a taxidermy exhibit.
Fatalie was there, grouching to herself in her unbelievably messy cube, so I made sure to stay longer than I meant to. And raised my voice a lot so she had to listen to me speaking.
Here’s a poem about my experience:
On the floor where I used to work is a very messy slot
Where a fat secretary pretends to work and clears her throat a lot.
How much is “a lot” you dare to ask, your eyeballs rolling to heaven.
I answer very promptly: Try infinity times seven.
The floor is dull and drab and painted liver yellow
And if she doesn’t like you, fat secretary won’t say “hello”.
(But she will clear her throat. A lot.)
The people there are all depressed and mainly full of trouble
But if there’s free food in the kitchen, these people move on the double.
The fat one sits behind her desk in her stupid broken chair
And spitefully proclaims to all around that *she* would never go there!
Then soon as 5:30 comes around and she is all alone,
She sneaks to the kitchen to raid all the food to feed her dogs at home.
I am so glad that nowadays I do not work on this floor
No clearing throats, no ringing phones, no people I abhor.
I am so happy at this time working on my new floor
No clearing throats, some ringing phones, and people I adore.
There. I think that says it all. Why I don’t get paid for my poetry I’ll never know.
Until next time,
Olrun
