Eight Degrees of What

It was eight degrees fahrenheit this morning when I woke up after a long and troubled night that involved me tossing around worrying about the QOB in the windstorm which was followed by an unpleasant altercation with He Who Shall Not Be Blogged About at 3 in the morning which is not what I consider a great time for visitors but which to he and his friends, who are all, apparently, vampires, is like happy hour. That led to me clawing through my bedroom drawers for a klonopin, since I couldn't remember where I'd hidden them the last time I cleverly hid them and really, there's nothing that makes you feel more like the starring character in Mother's Little Helper than desperately searching for drugs at 3 am when you're over 40. Still, drugs are good: I took half a klonopin in the wee hours and made it to the vet this morning so Pebble could get her stitches out, went by and saw the QOB, who weathered the winds just fine and was cranky anyways and got my sorry ass to work, so, well, all good. I'm still all depressed though, although it's nice to be home with an eggnog and the dogs and Pebble and, I think, HWSNBBA, although all I've gotten so far is an acknowledging grunt from the depths of Teenage Wasteland in the basement. He needs to go shopping, too. Shopping will be so fun two days before Christmas in the single digit cold!

And really, what is up with this eight degrees shit? When did we move to the Yukon? This is not helping my mood one iota although it did give me an excuse to wear the purple argyle tights I found at some nameless big box store during one of these horrible seasonal shopping expeditions. Sure, they were made by politically imprisoned starving orphaned eight year olds, but they're purple, and argyle and much too young for me and, which is more to the point, warm. Also they make me smile, slightly.