A Girl...

Cold Sweat

Once again, any seeds of proactivity that may have taken root inside me have been squashed by the mighty boot of lengthy indecision. They say that he who hesitates is lost; I say that she who hesitates increases the liklihood that someone else will do the dirty work for her. Which is to say, Simon received a call this afternoon from the cable company's security division to follow up on the reported theft of a certain powerdrill, which, it turns out, neither he nor I reported (see also: laziness and wide-eyed fear).

Apparently the owner of the drill, our landlord, sides with those of you who voted "rat out the bastard" and phoned in the incident to cable headquarters. Whether out of anger or revenge or goodwill to those who might have their cable installed and their tools thieved by the same chump later on down the line, the landlord has at once relieved us of all that dreadfully uncomfortable decisionmaking (good) and put us on the proverbial chopping block (v. bad). We can only hope that this Tyriq fellow has stolen on the job quite frequently and/or does not have enough thugs in his posse to retaliate against every single one of us who might have turned him in.

At least if all our stuff gets burgled and sold hot out of a windowless van under the freeway it won't be my fault. Nor will I have to blame Simon for it. There, I feel better already. Not. Especially since our already ineffective security gate no longer closes across the driveway as of Wednesday, being that the bars were whacked into the shape of a truck bumper during The Mysterious Case of Our Landlord Backing into Them with His Son's Work Vehicle.

***

This weekend Simon suggested we spend the night in a swank hotel in San Francisco--not because we've fallen behind our hotel-patronage quota, and not because we have money to burn (although I did just get a raise! woo!), but because it's been dipping down to 33 degrees at night, making it about 43 degrees in our bed, under the electric blanket, under two bedspreads, under the cat's hot little belly, which is not big enough to cover all four of our feet let alone two full adult bodies.

It seems like most of what I talk about these days is the Neverending Coldness of Being Me, but that's the sad state of things. A few weeks ago, before they fixed the heaters at my office, I confessed to Simon that the only time I was truly happy was during my BART rides to and from work everyday. Tea mug in one hand, Scarlett and Rhett in the other, my coat buttoned to the neck, it was my one refuge from the otherwise constant temperature exhaustion. Home was cold, work was cold, the car ride to the station was cold, standing on the outdoor platform in the north wind was cold, walking from the train to work was cold. That changed when the thermostat at work was fixed, although then instead of dreading being Practically Everywhere, I mostly dreaded going home at night, and that's just depressing. For home is where the boyfriend is, where the love is, where the popcorn and the peppermint tea and the tub of refrigerated cookie dough mean never having to say I'm sorry.

Whether I take Simon up on his hotel offer remains to be seen. I have a freelance editing project that will span the entire three-day weekend, and I don't know that I want to spend what would otherwise be a romantic getaway with my nose in a manuscript, warm though my nose may be. Also, there's the small HUGE matter of our hosting a housewarming party next Saturday, so at least part of my time over the next few days must be devoted to killing myself over pesky little details like dusting the bookshelves and washing the wine glasses and making sure none of our guests will contract a communicable disease from our bathroom, which hasn't been cleaned in two months.

Say, perhaps our house is cold because it hasn't yet been "warmed" and this party is the answer to all our problems...

***

I once read somewhere that crime increases during heat waves. Just now I Googled for corroboration and learned that in eighteenth-century Italy the connection between high temperature and violence was so tightly linked that sirocco season was considered a mitigating circumstance when trying criminals in court. Further evidence in recent centuries supports earlier theories, with statistics and everything. I'm almost convinced. And I almost don't mind freezing my non-existent nuts off if that's the thing to dull the rage of an accused drill thief, thus preventing our becoming the victims of, as Will so comfortingly put it, the "murderous revenge" of the cable guy.