It's 56 degrees in the house this morning,
and 19 degrees outside. It's interesting to think
that, if this were January, and it was a sunny
56-degree afternoon, we'd all be outside
contemplating short sleeves and remarking
on the near-balminess of the day.
But hunkered down over my computer, up to my neck
in soft blue fleece, and cinnamon-spiced coffee at hand,
the only place I'd even consider exposing that much
skin is in a deep hot bath.
Our annual holiday sale at work is tomorrow
and will be repeated next Sunday. We've had the
good fortune to be swamped with orders since
September, with absolutely no let-up. And we're
getting down to the wire here with last-minute
requests begging to be filled. We spent the last
two days converting Melinda's factory-house
into a boutique-house. We've been wading through
an ocean of packing peanuts and shipping boxes
and suddenly there are vast open stretches of floor.
(Okay, "vast" is a bit of an exaggeration, considering
that our "production facility" is only about 600
square feet, but still. The contrast is startling.)
I really want to be present tomorrow when the customers
crowd-in and ooh-and-ahhh over all our meticulous
work, but the thought of driving yet another day
into the city on my only day off is less than appealing.