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The cold has arrived, seeping in through the screen windows and driving our sleeping bodies deeper and deeper into the blankets. This morning I tiptoed to the kettle, despite the fact that yesterday the downstairs neighbor had stumbled and climbed over our patio blockade to complain about the baby playing with a spoon at 9:30am. (I have been mentally formulating retorts ever since. "Oh, sure, we'll stop letting the baby play - if YOU stop screaming FUCK YOU at each other and smoking pot all night", "Yeah well your hair is stupid", etc). Leif and I spent the morning under the couch blanket, texting and watching reruns of the Daily Show and working on our dance choreography. When it was time for work I looked for my warmest blouse, but unbuttoned it anyway when I drove by the line of construction men working on the highway, picking out one for each of my closest friends and family. I took the little one on the end, because he looked like he could fit easily in the trunk. The ocean was flat, brushed silver, smudging into a colorless mass of rain on the horizon. I counterbalanced it with Van Morrison, sha-la-la-la-ing to the post office. And then something spectacular happened. Ms. Apple sent me beaver panties. BEAVER PANTIES. With a stuffed gnome, viking, and pocketmouth. The stuffies were so excited, they did a dance on the post office counter, wrestled violently, and did a bit of kissing. I managed not to pull the underpants on over my pants in the middle of the post office, but it was a near thing. Reenactment:

 

  

 

Gnome and viking pretend things are not a bit weird between them now. 

 

  

 

I no longer care about the dead rats stuck in the back of the fridge. The man can fish them out; I will sit at work whispering secrets to the stuffie guard. Assuming they can stop texting each other long enough to pretend they are listening.