|Who is this angry man?|
We refuse to turn the heat on in our apartment. One: it is electric heat and everyone knows electric heat is the most expensive form of all, over oil and natural gas. Two: it's just not that cold. Is it?
I woke up with frost on the end of the old schnozzola and when I pressed it into the nape of my wife's neck she yelped as if someone had dropped an ice cube down her bra at a bar-b-que. Has New Orleans made us so soft already? I am a flinty New Englander, of good, honest, Housatonic Valley Connecticut stock, used to shoveling snow and withstanding wind chills that would make a southerner wither from frostbite. I have all my toes despite miles spent marching through slush and snowdrift with inadequate footgear. 50 degrees gives me the shivers. I must be acclimating.
One thing I can't acclimate to is having a regular 9-5 job. I can only go to Parkway Tavern and Bakery for lunch on the weekend now and the line for a po' boy stretches a hundred people deep. On a weekday, it is more tolerable, maybe twenty people, maybe fifteen. If you time it right on a Thursday, there's no line at all. I miss being devil-may-care.