I will never be Irish.

I will never be Irish. I will never accept the idea that, as an Irish cabbie recently said to us, one keeps one’s house not so much *warm* as ‘not cold’. (This guy has a Lithuanian girlfriend. Only upon visiting her family in Lithuania did he understand why she kept turning the heat up in Ireland. “Of course,” he said, “their houses are insulated for it, too.”) A house is not sufficiently warm unless I can spread butter on a piece of bread without tearing the bread. I have not, and probably never will, get used to the idea that on a fine day I still need to wear layers *inside* the house even if *outside* I can comfortably wear shorts and a tank top.

I have adapted far enough that I’ll turn the heat off in the rooms I’m not using, except for the kitchen, because the goddamned kitchen ought not double as an ice box. I have adapted in so far as that I wear slippers or fuzzy socks, and sweaters or other layers, which I never did in Alaska except upon going OUTDOORS, which is the natural and reasonable place to wear layers. I’ve learned to close the door of the room I’m in to capture the heat. And I have also learned that a space heater in the frelling kitchen actually warms it up (unlike the radiator, which makes it slightly less cold), and so a space heater it is. That’s as far as I adapt. :)

I posted a bunch of pictures from Alaska and Seattle, she said, making a wrenching transition from one topic to the next. Most of them are probably completely meaningless to everyone but the people in them, and there’s a certain sameyness to them because a significant percentage feature me in the sweater my Mom made for me, so even different days sort of look the same. Still, they’re here, if anybody wants to peruse them.

I called last night for a taxi to pick us up this morning, and one did. And took us by the most circuitous route possible to the gym, which pissed us off to no end. I need to call our regular cabbie and see if he works that early/can give me a number for somebody who’s not an asshole. Anyway, we did go to the gym, and I swam the slowest 1K of my adult life, but I swam, and Ted gymmed, and we are pleased with ourselves. Well. I’m pleased with myself, anyway. :)

And I wrote a chapter today. I have approximately 32 working days before this book is due. Assuming nothing goes wrong, I will just squeak in to having it finished on time. Let us hope nothing goes wrong. Let us hope, in fact, that I have an unexpectedly stellar week and write a lot more than is necessary. But let us be realistic, too, and admit that that ain’t gonna happen until after the new year.

Speaking of which, how can next year possibly be 2010? That’s just *bizarre*.

miles to Minas Tirith: 99.1
ytd km swum: 45ish?
ytd wordcount: 259,400