Rockin, Not Shakin Ms Journal

A lot of us are, including Dale who wrote I'm Shaking Ms Journal, exactly one week ago when he was feeling the cold, doing our best not to turn our the furnaces on until November. Towards the end of every October, this becomes a bit of an endurance test. It's a Canadian thing, or at least a southern Canadian thing; I can't imagine that Martin, up there inside the Arctic Circle, would contemplate such a thing. (By the way, Martin, I still have trouble commenting on your site. I've been having trouble commenting on a lot of sites lately, but I've always had that trouble on Eclectic Blogs.)

Last evening, the kids had us over for supper, and The Boy shamefacedly confessed to having turned on the furnace for about an hour when he got home yesterday. He claimed that it was down to 13°C/55°F and that he really needed to take the chill off. Although I'm sure that he exaggerated somewhat, nobody blamed him. But my own rectitude in this matter leaves me feeling like a holy martyr because I am holding firm in my resolve.

Yes, we did capitulate when we had company last weekend. We didn't want Mary's sweet potato soup freezing over before she dipped her spoon in. Did we? And although I'm told that some have fantasies in this area (ménage à trois I am told), we didn't want her crawling into bed with us either in a desperate search for warmth.

Besides, I already endure a crowded bed of three. It's the cat, of course! He may be small but he manages to take up a disproportionate amount of space. Not only that, but he has taken to sleeping by my feet! I don't know why. Cuppa is his favourite person. I lose count of the number of times that he simply uses me to get to her. We'll be sitting on the couch, Cuppa and me, watching tv. Suddenly, he jumps up on my lap; I begin to feel fuzzy-hearted and proud to be blessed by the Furry Critter of Purr. It is invariably at that moment that he chooses to shatter my spirit by crossing over to Cuppa's preferred lap.

So, it boggles my miniscule mind to fathom why he is sleeping at my feet and not hers. It can't be for comfort because I am taller than Cuppa, and I'm sure that my longer legs cause some discomfort; surely he endures numerous kicks, nudges, and proddings through the night. But he persists. Some cats skedadle at the slightest twitch of an eyebrow, but not The Rocks who endures like ... well, like a rock.

Eventually, in these circumstances, I often begin to feel constrained. What with Cuppa taking her 55% of the bed on my left and Rocky taking his 35% on my right, I sometimes find my 20% to be rather confining and feel the need to seek alternate accommodations. It's not always his/their fault as I am a frequent night-roamer regardless. There are times, for example, when I do my best impression of a glowing ember. I may simply start to roast and swelter for no apparent reason and opt to seek relief by distancing myself from other bodies.

Last night, however, with the outside temperature falling below freezing, I was not having a heat problem, however: just a space one. I simply couldn't seem to get comfortable on my meagre 20% of what has become the family bed. So, I trundled off to find leg and elbow room elsewhere. That I found, but what I didn't find was much protective cover, just one thin blanket. It sufficed for a while, but I was shortly forced to return to the crowded bed. This time, however, I didn't mind, for by that time of night it was cold enough to snuggle right up to Cuppa and hold on tight. Yum!

This morning, I sit well-bundled at the computer. I wear my long johns, a heavy sweatshirt, and a toque. Oh the toque: a name that causes great confusion. Some people, some Americans at least, call it a toboggan. But in the Great White North a toboggan is something that we slide down hills on — a sleigh of sorts — and a toque is what we wear on our heads. I was not even aware of this distinction until last winter when a fellow blogger from Alabama wrote about wearing a toboggan on his head. That cracked me up, and he didn't know why, so I wrote this blog (it has pictures of the two items if you're still not sure of what I'm blathering on about — and I'm wearing that same toque at this moment, and Cuppa has just wandered in and snapped a picture that I now offer up to my loyal fan base).

A well-bundled, toqued maestro typing with a flourish

Look, all that I really wanted to say is that it's chilly this morning, but I resist turning the heat on for another few days, so I am well but oddly swathed. But I have gone the long way round and talked about cats in the bed, guests, and toques and toboggans. In fact, I have let this become one of my longer blogs. I attempt to keep blogs to between four and six paragraphs for the most part as I reckon that's about as long as the typical blogospherian will stick with you — and also because I'm normally more concise than verbose — but not this morning, apparently.

Finally, I want you to rest assured, that I'm comfortable, that I'm not depriving myself unduly because I am downright and Scrooge-like miserly. I'm not freezing my buns off or suffering in any way. That's one thing about cold weather. If you dress appropriately, you can almost always be warm, even when it's well below zero and you're outside taking the air, as they say. Generally, people only feel the cold in winter because they refuse to dress appropriately.

I'm not sure if most would consider long johns and toques to be appropriate attire for the house in October, but I'm content. Besides, I've taken long enough to write this blessed piece that the day has warmed up somewhat, and so I can begin to shed some of my wrappings.