All quiet. The sun peeks through the blinds like a tentative visitor. It woke me from my ravenous slumber and I stumbled downstairs to put on the kettle, eyes swollen with sleep, body practically levitating from the happiness that is ten hours of shut-eye and an obligation-free weekend. Yesterday as the snow fell I morphed into a pajama-clad creature of productivity, vacuuming, dusting, cooking, practicing, quietly gulping pot after pot of tea with "Making a Murderer" as inte

Faithful readers (all two and a half of them) of this word receptacle will recall how I tend to wax romantic about snow days. That proclivity has not diminished; if anything, it's grown even stronger, inversely proportional to my aversion of late to all other things romantic. The snow day is the mistress of the status quo--an affair with one's regularly scheduled life, deliciously clandestine, like cheating time itself. Stolen solitude. The snow hasn't yet begun, but the air

I've probably mentioned it on this site before, but it bears reiterating: snow days are the best. Even when they fall on weekends, which may seem like a wasted opportunity for those who'd like a nature-made break from work, but I've come to realize that they are just as welcome on weekends, and especially on those weekends when you have various and sundry social obligations stacked Tetris-like along your calendar so that it begins to feel like work to your introverted self wh

Snow days are magical time-stopping devices that halt all social and work obligations, forcing one to hunker down in one's cozy home with a steaming mug of tea and a pile of work and chores that now miraculously have time to get done. One rejoices in one's mandatory hermitude. (Am I the only one who finds the pronoun form of "one" awkward and antiquated?) Now let's hope I don't spend this frozen moment in time (pun only partially intended) going down the rabbit hole of bad TV