We've been having a bit of a cold spell lately, which I guess is entirely normal for March. My friend Kathleen shared a picture of the snow they're getting in Utah, along with the forecast for next week. She said, "I know it's snowing, but look what's coming!" What's coming is 50°F weather.
I'm only a little bit ashamed that our cold spell is bringing highs in the mid-sixties (uhhh...brrrrr). The lows, though, have been in the thirties—below freezing—so I feel fully justified in saying that it's freezing.
And I cower at the thought of ever moving north again, which sometimes feels like an inevitable thing.
Anyway, last night I beat Andrew getting ready for bed and I was freezing, so I got into bed, snuggled into my pillow and pulled the covers up to my chin. Then Andrew got into bed and I said, "The bedroom light is still on."
"It is," he sighed, "And it looks like I'm turning it off..."
I nodded.
"...because you're thoroughly ensconced."
"Ensconced?!" I laughed, half at him, half at myself. "Is that really the word?! I have always thought it was ensconed, like you're all wrapped up in warm, yummy dough, sprinkled with powdered sugar while you're still warm, and..."
"I'm pretty sure there's another /s/ in there," he assured me (and then looked it up to prove it).
"Well, good thing I don't think I've ever used that word out loud," I said.
Then proceeded banter about "ensconcing scones" and things like that. Andrew was feeling all high and mighty until I began imagining a romantic evening where we'd find ourselves sitting on the bank of a levee together, ensconced in a blanket, eating scones...while waiting for our car to gas up.
That brought him back down to earth.
And he did turn off the light.
And then ripped the covers off me on his way back to the bed!
So I stuck my icy cold feet on him to get him back at him (I was totally not going to since he'd gotten out of bed to turn off the light but, uh, then I changed my mind when he ripped the covers off).
"What?!" he shrieked. "Did your feet flash freeze or something?! You were so nicely ensconed that I figured you'd be warm by now."
Nope. It's freezing.
I'm only a little bit ashamed that our cold spell is bringing highs in the mid-sixties (uhhh...brrrrr). The lows, though, have been in the thirties—below freezing—so I feel fully justified in saying that it's freezing.
And I cower at the thought of ever moving north again, which sometimes feels like an inevitable thing.
Anyway, last night I beat Andrew getting ready for bed and I was freezing, so I got into bed, snuggled into my pillow and pulled the covers up to my chin. Then Andrew got into bed and I said, "The bedroom light is still on."
"It is," he sighed, "And it looks like I'm turning it off..."
I nodded.
"...because you're thoroughly ensconced."
"Ensconced?!" I laughed, half at him, half at myself. "Is that really the word?! I have always thought it was ensconed, like you're all wrapped up in warm, yummy dough, sprinkled with powdered sugar while you're still warm, and..."
"I'm pretty sure there's another /s/ in there," he assured me (and then looked it up to prove it).
"Well, good thing I don't think I've ever used that word out loud," I said.
Then proceeded banter about "ensconcing scones" and things like that. Andrew was feeling all high and mighty until I began imagining a romantic evening where we'd find ourselves sitting on the bank of a levee together, ensconced in a blanket, eating scones...while waiting for our car to gas up.
That brought him back down to earth.
And he did turn off the light.
And then ripped the covers off me on his way back to the bed!
So I stuck my icy cold feet on him to get him back at him (I was totally not going to since he'd gotten out of bed to turn off the light but, uh, then I changed my mind when he ripped the covers off).
"What?!" he shrieked. "Did your feet flash freeze or something?! You were so nicely ensconed that I figured you'd be warm by now."
Nope. It's freezing.
Haha... Andrew is often amazed by how cold my hands are. "Did you have them in the freezer??"
ReplyDeleteCute story