Almost bath time
There are two marvelous features to my teeny little abode.
The first is my little heater that could. The second is my clawfoot tub.
The little (gas) heater that could dispels the chilling pacific humidity in mock five seconds, I have several friends that are astounded when they walk into my own personal tropics.
Having grown up in a house on Red Dog road, shaded by pine trees and wreathed in dog wood, it was always, always fucking cold in that house. Though I am still, tremendously in awe of the silence of snow, and city girl that I am now, I miss the sound of the great trees groaning against the yoke of the wind.
Been a bath junkie for as long as I can remember. Mme. Berelofagun detests the idea of literally stewing in your own juices, whereas I find it an apt metaphor. Once upon a time in a land called France, I had a tub that overlooked a valley of vineyards, to les Alpes Maritimes, when a storm would gather itself unto itself I would light towards the tub, to watch the lightening and feel the thunder, while scenting the ozone through the open window.
good baths, those.
I was sixteen then, and now I bumble, in heels, towards my jesus year of 33. Because I am a year of the pig child (1971) I always find myself celebrating an odd birthday on an even year, and, naturally, vice versa. I have high hopes for this year, despite all of the deaths thus far, and for christ sakes it is only March. I have a hopeful suspicion that all will coalesce...
coalescence, now that is a lovely word.
effervescence, evanescence, comeuppance.
And yet I find myself playing the fool's game with FLFF. I cajole myself, or rather, Emma cajoles, our body is in play, but our heart is in lock down.
For full disclosure, we trotted out the girls on sunday for the Oscar party and the accomplished their intended effect. We took FLFF home, we have his sweater to prove it, he worked us into a fluster, and then he left (again, lord, help us for the oh so dizzy tizzy)
is this what it is to be a single woman in the city, have the roles been so reversed that women are now suffering from the equivalent of... I dasn't say it...
to hear only some half assed, albeit, sincere, speech about respect and its ilk, yada yada, yada...
of course my ex-husband proffers - well that could be true, and then maybe he was just saying that... Thanks D. you've done wonders for my ailing ego, no wonder we're divorced...
Ah well, there are always dreams to be had in the bath tub, there is always the uncertainty of the future. There is always great loves to be contemplated for the dreamers. And of course, there is always the gym...
Emma is going to sing Cole Porter in the bath tub now.
There are two marvelous features to my teeny little abode.
The first is my little heater that could. The second is my clawfoot tub.
The little (gas) heater that could dispels the chilling pacific humidity in mock five seconds, I have several friends that are astounded when they walk into my own personal tropics.
Having grown up in a house on Red Dog road, shaded by pine trees and wreathed in dog wood, it was always, always fucking cold in that house. Though I am still, tremendously in awe of the silence of snow, and city girl that I am now, I miss the sound of the great trees groaning against the yoke of the wind.
Been a bath junkie for as long as I can remember. Mme. Berelofagun detests the idea of literally stewing in your own juices, whereas I find it an apt metaphor. Once upon a time in a land called France, I had a tub that overlooked a valley of vineyards, to les Alpes Maritimes, when a storm would gather itself unto itself I would light towards the tub, to watch the lightening and feel the thunder, while scenting the ozone through the open window.
good baths, those.
I was sixteen then, and now I bumble, in heels, towards my jesus year of 33. Because I am a year of the pig child (1971) I always find myself celebrating an odd birthday on an even year, and, naturally, vice versa. I have high hopes for this year, despite all of the deaths thus far, and for christ sakes it is only March. I have a hopeful suspicion that all will coalesce...
coalescence, now that is a lovely word.
effervescence, evanescence, comeuppance.
And yet I find myself playing the fool's game with FLFF. I cajole myself, or rather, Emma cajoles, our body is in play, but our heart is in lock down.
For full disclosure, we trotted out the girls on sunday for the Oscar party and the accomplished their intended effect. We took FLFF home, we have his sweater to prove it, he worked us into a fluster, and then he left (again, lord, help us for the oh so dizzy tizzy)
is this what it is to be a single woman in the city, have the roles been so reversed that women are now suffering from the equivalent of... I dasn't say it...
to hear only some half assed, albeit, sincere, speech about respect and its ilk, yada yada, yada...
of course my ex-husband proffers - well that could be true, and then maybe he was just saying that... Thanks D. you've done wonders for my ailing ego, no wonder we're divorced...
Ah well, there are always dreams to be had in the bath tub, there is always the uncertainty of the future. There is always great loves to be contemplated for the dreamers. And of course, there is always the gym...
Emma is going to sing Cole Porter in the bath tub now.
posted by emma at
11:23 PM
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