A little sincerity is a dangerous thing, and a great deal of it is absolutely fatal. -Oscar Wilde

Thursday, January 7, 2010

cinnamon toast

I love snow. Always have. It's the consolation for cold, remaking the landscape into a gingerbread wonderland spread with meringue and topped with a sparkling sprinkle of sugar crystals in exchange for numbing the fingers and toes and forehead and nose.

And with yet another SNOWPACALYPSE (in slow-mo this time.. or is that snow-mo?) on top of the near-constant freezing and snowing that we've had since New Year's, the instinct to nest-- no, to HIBERNATE-- is so very strong. The most I accomplished tonight was to start assembling my research binder and make cinnamon toast. I haven't had cinnamon toast since... well, honestly, I can't recall. Not since I've been living on my own, that's for sure. I take my toast medium, with butter (the type of bread doesn't matter, but rye is nice) (I am SO my grandmother's granddaughter). A little honey if I'm feeling decadent. But apparently the extended SNOWPACALYPSE is causing me to regress to the point where cinnamon toast in my jammies is about the highlight of my day. Actually, having cocoa would have put it over the top, but there isn't any cocoa in the apartment. I did consider going out into the SNOWPACALYPSE, but comfort (and laziness, let's be honest) won out. The brats are just fine with this development. Their coats are plush and sleek (well, except for Pete's self-induced feline pattern baldness) with winter down, making their slightly rotund figures look even fuller.

The inevitable parade of tomorrow's school delays is marching across the evening news. Looks like I'll be hiking it to school tomorrow. I tromped around (well, through) Schenley to campus Tuesday. It's about two and a half miles, mostly downhill on the way there and mostly uphill on the way back, taking me through the golf course and past Phipps. It's a pleasant walk, usually punctuated by a motley crew of joggers, golfers, students, and residents. As soon as I reached Wightman, the light snow turned into an almost white-out that lasted until I reached the Westinghouse pond. It was so pretty, so hushed and private-- but I lost feeling from my feet to my knees and my hands burned for the better part of a half an hour after I entered the library. I think I'll wear two pairs of socks tomorrow.

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