*Transcription:
Me: "Hey Darcy, tell me again, what are you gonna do with my
little hand?"
Darcy: "I'm gonna put salt on it and eat it all up."
For more on this little darling, click here.
Thursday, January 12
And now a word from our sponsor...
*Transcription:
Me: "Hey Darcy, tell me again, what are you gonna do with my
little hand?"
Darcy: "I'm gonna put salt on it and eat it all up."
For more on this little darling, click here.
Thursday, January 5
mountain man
"So, do you only date guys with one arm, or will you also date two-armed guys?"
I smile. "Well, I usually only date one-armed guys, but I suppose I could make an exception."
And that was more or less the beginning. Three months later, we're still dating.
How did this happen? He says, "She threw herself at me." She says, "He wouldn't leave me alone." Honestly, I don't really know how it came about, but now, in what can only be described as an alien reality, I am someone's girlfriend.
But if I am going to be a girlfriend, I think I'm blossoming into the sort of girlfriend I'd like to be under his care. It started with a bouquet of wild flowers on our first date that his three lovely daughters helped to assemble.
I like to say I'm dating a Mountain Man. He makes snow for a living and he lives in the country. He owns a husky called Ivan. Need I say more?
When the owner of Java Joe's asks if I have plans for New Year's Eve, I feel ridiculously sheepish answering that I am going to surprise my boyfriend at work. It's like the first time I went to buy alcohol after I turned 21––I was certain the cashier knew I was an amateur.
But even an amateur girlfriend knows that when you have the opportunity to get kissed on New Year's Eve, in the dark, on top of a snow-covered mountain, you take it.
And that's why I find it kind of odd he actually believes that since he has to work, I'm just going to bed early. Obviously, he's never dated a one-armed girl before. Challenge is my middle name.
Mountain Man knows a thing or two about challenge, himself. He's had the sort of life that might inspire a Francis Ford Coppola film; something like Almost Famous meets The Godfather.
His mother married into the mob, literally, making MM the last in a line of same-named gangsters with a direct line back to Italy. I'd tell you which name, but I'd have to kill you.
But his mom escaped to the west coast when he was young, so MM grew up into more of a Bob Marley-loving stoner. He still talks of freeways with articles and begins too many sentences with "Hey, man..."
Around 9pm, I head east on "the" 40. At the end of MM's snow-packed lane, I call his cell.
"Hello?," he answers groggily.
"Hey. So, I was thinking about spending the night in a snowcat on the mountain..."
"Ok." He's fully awake now. "I have to get up and get ready and....do you want me to come get you?"
"Well, I'm at the end of your driveway, so it would be nice if you just let me in the gate."
"Shut up!"
Though he's worked nearly everything from construction to film publicity, right now MM is happiest driving the spider-like snowcat, grooming ski runs all night for the following day. Sometimes he actually gets to ski the slopes that he combs.
As we crawl up the mountain, New Year's beers in hand, MM points out rough spots and icy patches. He's an artist in his precision. It can't be too slick or too bumpy; it has to be just right. MM has an eye for detail. I find a packet of tissues and chapstick in my vest pocket.
Mountain Man has a girl's needs in mind. He has to: he's singly caring for three daughters. This is one of the things I love most about him––though I frequently have to clarify to him that dating a father is not like dating your father.
At the top of the mountain, we leave the warmth of the snowcat and walk to the lookout on the other side. The city spreads out in twinkly lights.
[There may have been some kissing at this point, but I'll spare you the details...cliché never makes for good writing, anyway.]
I haven't stayed up all night since high school and I'm surprised I manage to keep awake despite the gentle rocking of the snowcat; though I wouldn't say I was awake, exactly. It was much more plausible that I was dreaming, in a spaceship with a single spotlight eye, hovering over the snow, passing trees made alive with dancing shadows.
Suddenly the indie station we're picking up from Santa Fe plays a song about a girl called Peg who only has one leg. MM and I look at each other. I can't argue this isn't one of many 'signs' MM sees on a daily basis. Though a sign of what, I couldn't say.
Everything is surreal, to use one of MM's favorite words. I've explained to him that if you describe most of your life as surreal, it kind of negates the definition. Then he tells me, "You know, you're pretty unique." Sigh.
I'm not sure how many times we stop for me to run into the woods and pee in three feet of snow; wondering how much time I have before MM or the resident mountain lion comes looking for me, not sure which of those two prospects is more terrifying. But long before I expect, the first day of 2012 is lighting the horizon.
Our shift is ending with the start of day. We make our way down the mountain, adding last minute touches to the masterpiece. A man skis past us, his dog running behind him. After bedding down the cat, we walk hand-in-hand to the parking lot.
I think I could get used to this girlfriend thing.
OneArmGirl
I smile. "Well, I usually only date one-armed guys, but I suppose I could make an exception."
And that was more or less the beginning. Three months later, we're still dating.
How did this happen? He says, "She threw herself at me." She says, "He wouldn't leave me alone." Honestly, I don't really know how it came about, but now, in what can only be described as an alien reality, I am someone's girlfriend.
But if I am going to be a girlfriend, I think I'm blossoming into the sort of girlfriend I'd like to be under his care. It started with a bouquet of wild flowers on our first date that his three lovely daughters helped to assemble.
I like to say I'm dating a Mountain Man. He makes snow for a living and he lives in the country. He owns a husky called Ivan. Need I say more?
When the owner of Java Joe's asks if I have plans for New Year's Eve, I feel ridiculously sheepish answering that I am going to surprise my boyfriend at work. It's like the first time I went to buy alcohol after I turned 21––I was certain the cashier knew I was an amateur.
But even an amateur girlfriend knows that when you have the opportunity to get kissed on New Year's Eve, in the dark, on top of a snow-covered mountain, you take it.
And that's why I find it kind of odd he actually believes that since he has to work, I'm just going to bed early. Obviously, he's never dated a one-armed girl before. Challenge is my middle name.
Mountain Man knows a thing or two about challenge, himself. He's had the sort of life that might inspire a Francis Ford Coppola film; something like Almost Famous meets The Godfather.
His mother married into the mob, literally, making MM the last in a line of same-named gangsters with a direct line back to Italy. I'd tell you which name, but I'd have to kill you.
But his mom escaped to the west coast when he was young, so MM grew up into more of a Bob Marley-loving stoner. He still talks of freeways with articles and begins too many sentences with "Hey, man..."
Around 9pm, I head east on "the" 40. At the end of MM's snow-packed lane, I call his cell.
"Hello?," he answers groggily.
"Hey. So, I was thinking about spending the night in a snowcat on the mountain..."
"Ok." He's fully awake now. "I have to get up and get ready and....do you want me to come get you?"
"Well, I'm at the end of your driveway, so it would be nice if you just let me in the gate."
"Shut up!"
 |
| Daybreak |
As we crawl up the mountain, New Year's beers in hand, MM points out rough spots and icy patches. He's an artist in his precision. It can't be too slick or too bumpy; it has to be just right. MM has an eye for detail. I find a packet of tissues and chapstick in my vest pocket.
Mountain Man has a girl's needs in mind. He has to: he's singly caring for three daughters. This is one of the things I love most about him––though I frequently have to clarify to him that dating a father is not like dating your father.
At the top of the mountain, we leave the warmth of the snowcat and walk to the lookout on the other side. The city spreads out in twinkly lights.
[There may have been some kissing at this point, but I'll spare you the details...cliché never makes for good writing, anyway.]
I haven't stayed up all night since high school and I'm surprised I manage to keep awake despite the gentle rocking of the snowcat; though I wouldn't say I was awake, exactly. It was much more plausible that I was dreaming, in a spaceship with a single spotlight eye, hovering over the snow, passing trees made alive with dancing shadows.
Suddenly the indie station we're picking up from Santa Fe plays a song about a girl called Peg who only has one leg. MM and I look at each other. I can't argue this isn't one of many 'signs' MM sees on a daily basis. Though a sign of what, I couldn't say.
Everything is surreal, to use one of MM's favorite words. I've explained to him that if you describe most of your life as surreal, it kind of negates the definition. Then he tells me, "You know, you're pretty unique." Sigh.
I'm not sure how many times we stop for me to run into the woods and pee in three feet of snow; wondering how much time I have before MM or the resident mountain lion comes looking for me, not sure which of those two prospects is more terrifying. But long before I expect, the first day of 2012 is lighting the horizon.
Our shift is ending with the start of day. We make our way down the mountain, adding last minute touches to the masterpiece. A man skis past us, his dog running behind him. After bedding down the cat, we walk hand-in-hand to the parking lot.
I think I could get used to this girlfriend thing.
OneArmGirl
Monday, January 2
new year, new page
Happy New Year!
OneArmGirl
Thursday, December 29
aqua aerobics and asexual cookies
Little Gen brought this gingerbread woman home because one of her arms is shorter than the other...
She's politically correct like that. Actually, there are no gingerbread men or women at the restaurant where L.G. works; there are only gingerbread people, or ginger folk. So I don't know if this is a ginger man or woman or trans-gendered ginger because they are intentionally sexually ambiguous. Pink dress or pink toga, you be the judge.
But enough about cookies. Or are they yeast-free breads with a preference for sweetness? I'd hate to pigeon-hole anyone.
In other news, the one-armed girl has recently joined the local YMCA. And despite her severe aversion to the familiar song (and particularly the accompanying gestures) played at major sporting events, the indoor pool sealed the deal.
It's been a new adventure for me, this gym membership thing. Before this, the closest I'd ever gotten was a temporary complimentary gym membership that I got in the mail. I think I went twice.
My first day at the pool, I encountered a completely naked older woman in the showering room who informed me that I had just missed the aquatic aerobics class.
"Excuse me," I said, trying desperately not to look at the sudsy soap she was lathering in her lower regions.
[It should be here stated that I haven't had much experience with group showering. I was schooled at home where we were privileged with private bathing times, and when I did go to public school, I was excused from classes involving showers due to a back brace that I had to wear all day.]
There are times in life when I wish I weren't so approachable. Group showers are one such situation. However, understanding the concept, I attempt an Emperor's New Clothes mindset and soldier forth. Fortunately I've worn my fair share of hospital gowns and one might as well go naked, am I right?
Unfortunately, between the water in my ear and the echoing shower room, I had to advance toward Mrs. Lather to get the full story. I promised I would try to make the next class.
And the following Friday, true to my word, I arrived in time for the Silver Sneakers aquatic aerobics class. Imagine for a moment a pool full of retirees and me, the one-armed girl.
I nod to Mrs. Lather who is warming up in the shallow end, but she doesn't appear to remember our shower room meeting.
As I make my way into deeper water, I encounter a group of ladies who rave about the upcoming class, but assure me that I can participate just as much as I want, or just bob around in the deep end if I feel like relaxing.
Angela, who appears much younger than me, leads our class with grace and the forgiveness of a kindergarten teacher, unwilling to let the talkers in the back keep us from our underwater leg figure eights.
Mrs. Lather offers helpful hints from time to time, like giving myself enough room and holding onto the side of the pool for balance. I tell her that I'm excited to work my abs because I've been taking an aerial fabrics class and she nods with raised eyebrows like she might if I'd just admitted to being a martian.
Getting out of the water, I could already feel my thighs aching. Turns out senior aquatic aerobics is just my speed. I've found my demographic.
It was much preferable to my next visit when I happened to get in the water just before a class of children who sat patiently around the pool awaiting their turn. When I reach the deep end of my lane, a small gathering of little girls grin from the side.
"What happened to your arm?"
"How can you swim with one arm?"
I smile back, suddenly envying the polar bears behind glass at the zoo because they never have to explain themselves. Some days, you just can't get out of the office.
"Well," I say...
OneArmGirl
But enough about cookies. Or are they yeast-free breads with a preference for sweetness? I'd hate to pigeon-hole anyone.
In other news, the one-armed girl has recently joined the local YMCA. And despite her severe aversion to the familiar song (and particularly the accompanying gestures) played at major sporting events, the indoor pool sealed the deal.
It's been a new adventure for me, this gym membership thing. Before this, the closest I'd ever gotten was a temporary complimentary gym membership that I got in the mail. I think I went twice.
My first day at the pool, I encountered a completely naked older woman in the showering room who informed me that I had just missed the aquatic aerobics class.
"Excuse me," I said, trying desperately not to look at the sudsy soap she was lathering in her lower regions.
[It should be here stated that I haven't had much experience with group showering. I was schooled at home where we were privileged with private bathing times, and when I did go to public school, I was excused from classes involving showers due to a back brace that I had to wear all day.]
There are times in life when I wish I weren't so approachable. Group showers are one such situation. However, understanding the concept, I attempt an Emperor's New Clothes mindset and soldier forth. Fortunately I've worn my fair share of hospital gowns and one might as well go naked, am I right?
Unfortunately, between the water in my ear and the echoing shower room, I had to advance toward Mrs. Lather to get the full story. I promised I would try to make the next class.
And the following Friday, true to my word, I arrived in time for the Silver Sneakers aquatic aerobics class. Imagine for a moment a pool full of retirees and me, the one-armed girl.
 |
| Christmas cookie icing |
As I make my way into deeper water, I encounter a group of ladies who rave about the upcoming class, but assure me that I can participate just as much as I want, or just bob around in the deep end if I feel like relaxing.
Angela, who appears much younger than me, leads our class with grace and the forgiveness of a kindergarten teacher, unwilling to let the talkers in the back keep us from our underwater leg figure eights.
Mrs. Lather offers helpful hints from time to time, like giving myself enough room and holding onto the side of the pool for balance. I tell her that I'm excited to work my abs because I've been taking an aerial fabrics class and she nods with raised eyebrows like she might if I'd just admitted to being a martian.
Getting out of the water, I could already feel my thighs aching. Turns out senior aquatic aerobics is just my speed. I've found my demographic.
It was much preferable to my next visit when I happened to get in the water just before a class of children who sat patiently around the pool awaiting their turn. When I reach the deep end of my lane, a small gathering of little girls grin from the side.
"What happened to your arm?"
"How can you swim with one arm?"
I smile back, suddenly envying the polar bears behind glass at the zoo because they never have to explain themselves. Some days, you just can't get out of the office.
"Well," I say...
OneArmGirl
Thursday, December 22
the soul's worth
My favorite Christmas carol is O, Holy Night. I decided this when I noted the lyrics, "Long lay the world/in sin and error, pining/Till He appeared/and the soul felt its worth...
It surprises me that suffering causes people to question the existence of God. Since I was small, it's been the other way around. It's always when I am most acutely hurting that I am most convinced of a greater source of compassion.
I don't remember the particular ailment, but I do remember sitting crumpled over on the toilet, my toes barely reaching the floor. I felt agony that my parents were powerless to alleviate. And I knew in that moment that I had need beyond human means to meet. I groaned for God because there was nowhere else to groan.
I got sick frequently as a kid; bedridden sick, as my mom would say, from earaches to tonsillitis. I was hospitalized at five for diarrhea-induced dehydration. They attached me to an IV. We called him Harry. Harry went everywhere with me, even to the toilet.
I was seven when I watched a man with cerebral palsy talk about how God called him to be a preacher. He spoke his story with awkward gestures in halting, varied pitch. It was one of the most painful and beautiful things I have ever seen. I wanted God to use me like that.
"Whatever you want me to do, wherever you want me to go," I promised through tears.
It wasn't till many years later that I began to understand what I was asking for. I'd become so competent at succeeding, I figured that's what God wanted, and I was handling it. Then, just when I was really getting started, it all fell apart. For more on this lovely time of my life, see previous posts. Suffice it to say, it was way beyond diarrhea.
I was pissed, and I'm not talking drunk, though that might have helped. Unfortunately alcohol was strictly forbidden for my recovery diet. One night, in a fit of frustration, I looked out the kitchen window into the dark.
"What are you doing to me?! I can't take it anymore. Say something, dammit!"
I waited. And then I heard it. Not audibly, thankfully, because as much as I wanted a sign, that would have scared the shit out of me.
"I love you." That was it. Well, thanks a hell of a lot, I thought.
Not long after that, a friend gave me a book called the Ragamuffin Gospel by Brennan Manning. It was early July and I was about to move back east, a complete failure as far as I was concerned. Also, I'd never been to the Grand Canyon. One of these wrongs was more easily righted. I jumped in the car with my mom and we set out to see, in my opinion, a huge hole in Arizona. I threw the Ragamuffin Gospel in the glove box.
"Never confuse your perception of yourself with the mystery that you really are accepted," says Manning. That was exactly it; I'd confused Divine love with a mirror reflecting my shortcomings. Manning further quotes the Apostle Paul, "the Lord said to me, 'My grace is sufficient for you, for power is perfected in weakness.'"
Sitting on the rim of the Grand Canyon, the sun setting on a red horizon, I felt minute, my decisions of small consequence next to such fathomless beauty. It was a lot like watching the preacher with cerebral palsy.
"How deep the Father's love for us/How vast beyond all measure..." cries the hymn. It didn't matter how far I fell, I would never reach the bottom of Grace.
Sometimes people come to the knowledge of God in a euphoric experience of enlightenment. I generally find God on the toilet. But really, when else are we more exposed, more vulnerable, more open to divine intervention?
But we'll never fully understand, not in this life, what happened on that Holy Night. The Son of God born into an animal feeding trough is about as crazy as power perfected in weakness, or a girl who found her calling in a missing appendage.
What I do know, is that my soul feels its worth.
OneArmGirl
 |
| Christmas time capsule |
I don't remember the particular ailment, but I do remember sitting crumpled over on the toilet, my toes barely reaching the floor. I felt agony that my parents were powerless to alleviate. And I knew in that moment that I had need beyond human means to meet. I groaned for God because there was nowhere else to groan.
I got sick frequently as a kid; bedridden sick, as my mom would say, from earaches to tonsillitis. I was hospitalized at five for diarrhea-induced dehydration. They attached me to an IV. We called him Harry. Harry went everywhere with me, even to the toilet.
I was seven when I watched a man with cerebral palsy talk about how God called him to be a preacher. He spoke his story with awkward gestures in halting, varied pitch. It was one of the most painful and beautiful things I have ever seen. I wanted God to use me like that.
"Whatever you want me to do, wherever you want me to go," I promised through tears.
It wasn't till many years later that I began to understand what I was asking for. I'd become so competent at succeeding, I figured that's what God wanted, and I was handling it. Then, just when I was really getting started, it all fell apart. For more on this lovely time of my life, see previous posts. Suffice it to say, it was way beyond diarrhea.
I was pissed, and I'm not talking drunk, though that might have helped. Unfortunately alcohol was strictly forbidden for my recovery diet. One night, in a fit of frustration, I looked out the kitchen window into the dark.
"What are you doing to me?! I can't take it anymore. Say something, dammit!"
I waited. And then I heard it. Not audibly, thankfully, because as much as I wanted a sign, that would have scared the shit out of me.
"I love you." That was it. Well, thanks a hell of a lot, I thought.
"Never confuse your perception of yourself with the mystery that you really are accepted," says Manning. That was exactly it; I'd confused Divine love with a mirror reflecting my shortcomings. Manning further quotes the Apostle Paul, "the Lord said to me, 'My grace is sufficient for you, for power is perfected in weakness.'"
Sitting on the rim of the Grand Canyon, the sun setting on a red horizon, I felt minute, my decisions of small consequence next to such fathomless beauty. It was a lot like watching the preacher with cerebral palsy.
"How deep the Father's love for us/How vast beyond all measure..." cries the hymn. It didn't matter how far I fell, I would never reach the bottom of Grace.
Sometimes people come to the knowledge of God in a euphoric experience of enlightenment. I generally find God on the toilet. But really, when else are we more exposed, more vulnerable, more open to divine intervention?
But we'll never fully understand, not in this life, what happened on that Holy Night. The Son of God born into an animal feeding trough is about as crazy as power perfected in weakness, or a girl who found her calling in a missing appendage.
What I do know, is that my soul feels its worth.
OneArmGirl
Thursday, December 15
joy of giving re-gifted
I was all prepared for another uneventful Christmas season here in the (currently) rainy Southwest. But so far, it's been anything but.
It's just Little Gen and I at the homestead, and I already gave LG her Christmas present: the previously mentioned three hundred and fifty thread count goose down 'boyfriend'. She wanted to get for me a decorative bull skull, horns included, as one ofttimes finds hanging on western decored walls. I've wanted one for some time and no, I have no good explanation for it.
So, on a recent snowy day we set out in search of said fleshless carcass head, but after two stops and much snow crunching underfoot, we came up empty-handed. We did however manage to stuff our faces with chili cheese fries from Sonic. All in all, not a wasted trip.
But after scouring the virtual shelves at Amazon.com, gifts virtually purchased and electronically mailed east to the rest of the family, I thought all my shopping finished. But I was mistaken.
[I would like to interrupt this exposition to draw your attention to my particular aversion to gifts. It's not that I don't enjoy giving things to loved ones, but under the current pressure of holiday buying, I find it particularly disagreeable to run about in a crunch, simply because I need to cross another name off the list.
And it must be mentioned that I've been known, on frequent occasion, to give awkward and/or inappropriate gifts by accident--the awkward part by accident, not the gift, just to clarify. Just ask Dave, who received a rainbow-colored wind sock during a hospital stay when I thought his room could use some color. Fine print: Dave is not gay. Or take the paper lamp shade with the pretty leaves drawn on the side that I brought home from London for my sister. No, at the age of 21, I did not recognize cannabis.
I don't even like receiving gifts, for any occasion. It makes me uncomfortable. And complicating the situation, I have very particular taste (some call it finickiness) and as irritating as it can be, it's incurable. So a gift given without consideration of this particularity can be awkward at best, disastrous at worst.
With an approaching holiday, I start to panic if I've made new friends recently or find myself in any way romantically associated.
"Things were going so well until he gave me those peach bath salts; if only he'd gone with lavender!"
It can ruin relationships, I tell you.]
Judge if you will, but suffice it to say, presents make me nervous. So I'm not sure if it was self-inflicted therapy or sheer lunacy that made me offer to take three girls between the ages of nine and thirteen shopping for Christmas presents this week...on a Sunday...at the mall!
Yes, folks, the mall. A place where, at this time of year, one is just as likely to get lost or trampled as sit on Santa's lap. On our three mile walk to the entrance from the parking lot, I advised the girls to hold me down and force-feed me lemonade if I started to panic. They promised they would. Then I remembered how lemonade gives me a sugar high, and they said they'd make me breathe into a paper bag instead.
But as with most things, the anticipation was far worse than the experience. And though I spent more time in Wet Seal than I'd like to admit to anyone over the age of 25, I was quite impressed with the girls' efficient decision-making ability, buying one gift every fifteen minutes on average.
Does it matter that most gifts were opened as soon as we got home, including some meant for other friends, that were opened and played with until they broke? Not in the least. We had a blast.
I got so excited, I went shopping again two days later with my Dragon Boy. We shopped for his mommy. We shopped for his dog. And then, of course, we shopped for him with the allowance money he had left. We even managed a ride on the carrousel at the mall. Then we went home and unpacked and wrapped our treasure.
So maybe it's just that I need to lighten up; not put so much expectation on one ribbon-laced box. And don't give seasons one and two of Glee to anyone for any reason.
OneArmGirl
It's just Little Gen and I at the homestead, and I already gave LG her Christmas present: the previously mentioned three hundred and fifty thread count goose down 'boyfriend'. She wanted to get for me a decorative bull skull, horns included, as one ofttimes finds hanging on western decored walls. I've wanted one for some time and no, I have no good explanation for it.
So, on a recent snowy day we set out in search of said fleshless carcass head, but after two stops and much snow crunching underfoot, we came up empty-handed. We did however manage to stuff our faces with chili cheese fries from Sonic. All in all, not a wasted trip.
 |
| Wrapping treasure |
But after scouring the virtual shelves at Amazon.com, gifts virtually purchased and electronically mailed east to the rest of the family, I thought all my shopping finished. But I was mistaken.
[I would like to interrupt this exposition to draw your attention to my particular aversion to gifts. It's not that I don't enjoy giving things to loved ones, but under the current pressure of holiday buying, I find it particularly disagreeable to run about in a crunch, simply because I need to cross another name off the list.
And it must be mentioned that I've been known, on frequent occasion, to give awkward and/or inappropriate gifts by accident--the awkward part by accident, not the gift, just to clarify. Just ask Dave, who received a rainbow-colored wind sock during a hospital stay when I thought his room could use some color. Fine print: Dave is not gay. Or take the paper lamp shade with the pretty leaves drawn on the side that I brought home from London for my sister. No, at the age of 21, I did not recognize cannabis.
I don't even like receiving gifts, for any occasion. It makes me uncomfortable. And complicating the situation, I have very particular taste (some call it finickiness) and as irritating as it can be, it's incurable. So a gift given without consideration of this particularity can be awkward at best, disastrous at worst.
With an approaching holiday, I start to panic if I've made new friends recently or find myself in any way romantically associated.
"Things were going so well until he gave me those peach bath salts; if only he'd gone with lavender!"
It can ruin relationships, I tell you.]
Judge if you will, but suffice it to say, presents make me nervous. So I'm not sure if it was self-inflicted therapy or sheer lunacy that made me offer to take three girls between the ages of nine and thirteen shopping for Christmas presents this week...on a Sunday...at the mall!
Yes, folks, the mall. A place where, at this time of year, one is just as likely to get lost or trampled as sit on Santa's lap. On our three mile walk to the entrance from the parking lot, I advised the girls to hold me down and force-feed me lemonade if I started to panic. They promised they would. Then I remembered how lemonade gives me a sugar high, and they said they'd make me breathe into a paper bag instead.
 |
| Be-chile-dazzled |
But as with most things, the anticipation was far worse than the experience. And though I spent more time in Wet Seal than I'd like to admit to anyone over the age of 25, I was quite impressed with the girls' efficient decision-making ability, buying one gift every fifteen minutes on average.
Does it matter that most gifts were opened as soon as we got home, including some meant for other friends, that were opened and played with until they broke? Not in the least. We had a blast.
I got so excited, I went shopping again two days later with my Dragon Boy. We shopped for his mommy. We shopped for his dog. And then, of course, we shopped for him with the allowance money he had left. We even managed a ride on the carrousel at the mall. Then we went home and unpacked and wrapped our treasure.
So maybe it's just that I need to lighten up; not put so much expectation on one ribbon-laced box. And don't give seasons one and two of Glee to anyone for any reason.
OneArmGirl
Thursday, December 8
ode to cold
It's that time of year again, when I'd sooner lose another arm than go to the mall. Actually, that's how I feel about the mall all year round.
We've had a cold snap lately which we caught from California when she sneezed in our direction. But I'm actually enjoying the cold. I like to imagine I live in a place where it's this cold all the time, and I wear boots and scarfs every day, and go to work on a dog sled. I'm certain a lot of people in cold places go to work on dog sleds.
The only hiccup is I haven't much work to go to these days. Things have slowed at the farm significantly. The horses have been put away in the barn with blankets and heated water. And Carson the cat is most likely curled on the highest hay bale in the feed room.
What to do? There are only so many days Little Gen and I can go to Java Joe's and pretend that we are just taking a break from much more important things...like napping. We've stopped in for three consecutive mornings so far this week and neither of us have that kind of money. They do make a mean raspberry scone...
I tried to drive to Santa Fe on Monday for an aerial fabrics class, but fifteen minutes down the highway, snow was packed on the road and the exit ramp was covered in ice. No need to risk my life driving so that I can risk my life climbing huge ribbons hanging from the ceiling, I decided.
So, what did I do instead? Went to Java Joe's, of course.
At risk of stating the obvious, I should be working on the book. And I am. I actually opened up the first chapter for some polishing yesterday. I waded through, re-worded, cut and pasted. It was an arduous ten minutes, I tell you.
Then I went back to internet searching for the perfect red shoes to compliment a wool dress I recently spent too much money for. No luck so far, but when I find my shoes, it's all gonna be worth it. I'm gonna look amazing...for that one evening per year when I have reason to dress up.
I'm drinking more beer. Don't worry, it's just to keep warm.
At night, Little Gen and I sleep with our "boyfriends" to keep cozy. Three hundred and fifty thread count goose down comforters that don't mind warming our cold feet--best boyfriend a girl could ask for; a little light on conversation, though.
"Hmphh," our mother says, "I don't know why you are sleeping with your boyfriends anyway. Why not your husbands?"
Little Gen and I look at each other. I mean, I want to get married, but he's got commitment issues...
I believe winter is for reading and drinking hot cider...only hot cider gives me a sugar high that makes me think someone is waiting behind doors to grab me. I'm trying to read, but the lack of instant gratification required by my generation makes sitting down with a book seem like too much work.
In fact, everything seems like too much work when it's cold. Removing my person from my bed in the morning is a challenge akin to climbing Everest, I'm sure.
Speaking of mountain climbing, this dude is training to scale Mt. Kilimanjaro with no arms or legs...
Really? Putting your own pants on in the morning isn't challenge enough?
These days, I'm lucky if I get mine on by lunch time. I think I'll put off Everest for spring.
OneArmGirl
The only hiccup is I haven't much work to go to these days. Things have slowed at the farm significantly. The horses have been put away in the barn with blankets and heated water. And Carson the cat is most likely curled on the highest hay bale in the feed room.
What to do? There are only so many days Little Gen and I can go to Java Joe's and pretend that we are just taking a break from much more important things...like napping. We've stopped in for three consecutive mornings so far this week and neither of us have that kind of money. They do make a mean raspberry scone...
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| Somewhere a little hand is cold. |
So, what did I do instead? Went to Java Joe's, of course.
At risk of stating the obvious, I should be working on the book. And I am. I actually opened up the first chapter for some polishing yesterday. I waded through, re-worded, cut and pasted. It was an arduous ten minutes, I tell you.
Then I went back to internet searching for the perfect red shoes to compliment a wool dress I recently spent too much money for. No luck so far, but when I find my shoes, it's all gonna be worth it. I'm gonna look amazing...for that one evening per year when I have reason to dress up.
I'm drinking more beer. Don't worry, it's just to keep warm.
At night, Little Gen and I sleep with our "boyfriends" to keep cozy. Three hundred and fifty thread count goose down comforters that don't mind warming our cold feet--best boyfriend a girl could ask for; a little light on conversation, though.
"Hmphh," our mother says, "I don't know why you are sleeping with your boyfriends anyway. Why not your husbands?"
Little Gen and I look at each other. I mean, I want to get married, but he's got commitment issues...
I believe winter is for reading and drinking hot cider...only hot cider gives me a sugar high that makes me think someone is waiting behind doors to grab me. I'm trying to read, but the lack of instant gratification required by my generation makes sitting down with a book seem like too much work.
In fact, everything seems like too much work when it's cold. Removing my person from my bed in the morning is a challenge akin to climbing Everest, I'm sure.
Speaking of mountain climbing, this dude is training to scale Mt. Kilimanjaro with no arms or legs...
 |
| Photo courtesy of http://www.kyle-maynard.com |
Really? Putting your own pants on in the morning isn't challenge enough?
These days, I'm lucky if I get mine on by lunch time. I think I'll put off Everest for spring.
OneArmGirl
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