…but the racing wheels really do look awesome.

This evening, Mitch and I enjoyed an impromtu walk home in the snow. All the trees were a-glitter, the air was crisp and clean, but we weren’t out walking for pleasure, oh no, we were walking because we discovered, in the parking lot of Fred Meyer, that the back left wheel of our car was flat. (This discovery was, of course, preceded by a loud thump halfway down Lincoln St. and Mitch’s startled “What was that?”)

And so it was that we spent the dinner hour shoulder-to-shoulder with a few disgruntled folks waiting to get their snow tires, before finally quitting the scene and walking briskly down to the bus station, all the while reciting the positive aspects of the situation. Such as: the tire didn’t go flat last week when I was driving, by myself, down to Seattle, nor did it go flat on Saturday, when we drove down to Everett and back in the rain. Mercifully, when it did go flat, the tire waited politely until we were half a block from a discount tire shop–that was quite considerate, I must say.

In the meantime, we’re snug as bugs here at home, trying not to remember what it cost last time we had a tire replaced–because it escalated to having all four tires replaced with awesome-looking (but quite costly) 17-inch racing wheels, due to the some customizing that the previous owner had had done.

Thank you, previous owner. Thanks a bunch.

Snowed in: Day 3

It hasn’t snowed since Sunday, but what snow we have has stuck. The snow has thawed a bit and then frozen, thawed and frozen, so that the ground is covered not so much by a blanket of snow as by a crust of it, literally glittering in the sun that has, at last, emerged this morning from behind its bank of white clouds.

Our apartment is warm, the windows fogged up by steam that must have risen off the many cups of tea we’ve steeped in the past three days (I have single-handedly done away with almost an entire box of Candy Cane Lane peppermint tea), and the whole place smells like baking: delicatta squash, chocolate chip cookies, turkey soup, reheated stuffing, meringue cookies dipped in chocolate. Food has kept me busy, since, due to an absence of patients (nearly every one scheduled for the last two days has cancelled), work has not.

In fact, I haven’t worked in nearly a week, which we can blame on snow, the holiday, and those sick days spent with Arrested Developement and origami boxes. The time off has been pleasant, restful, full of reading, cleaning, writing, gift-making, baking, drinking tea and sleeping in, but such a high dose of forced relaxation can make one feel a bit, well, cabin-feverish after a while. This, combined with the fact that we had less than half a roll of toilet paper left, prompted Mitch and I to venture outside yesterday on a quest to the grocery store.

Since we aren’t used to this sort of weather here, snow always catches me off guard, and every year I realize how pitifully prepared I am for cold weather–and every year, I do nothing about it. I don’t own a ski coat or snow boots, and the old pair of ski pants I have are on indefinate loan from my parents, so dressing for the cold usually entails layers and layers and layers of clothes. By the time we left the building I was bundled up so tight that I felt more than a little like the kid from A Christmas Story, and I nearly toppled right over while bending down to tie my shoes.

The first thing we realized, upon attempting to actually leave our building, was that we were honestly, truly snowed in. The way our front walkway is constructed leaves us with a narrow, though picturesque, alley between the side of the building and a row of tall, green hedges. This passes under a stucco archway before reaching the street, and what we found was that the snow had drifted above the level of the door, so that we had to dig out a path for the door before we could actually open it wide enough to squeeze through. Then, we saw that the snow, nearly a foot deep, had filled the narrow walkway, and the hedges, weighted down by snow, had bent over toward the building, leaving spaces less than a foot high at the lowest and no more than four feet high at the highest for us to crawl through before we could reach the archway.

We almost literally had to tunnel our way out. It was awesome.

Probably more than you wanted to know, but now I’ve told you

As you may have heard, I’ve been busy combining my book site with this one, which means I’ve had to manually go through and copy and paste every damn entry from one blog to the other. This has been a tedious process, but an enlightening one, as it’s provided me with an opportunity to go back and read some of my earlier entries from both blogs.

Why enlightening? Well, it’s interesting to have such evidence of the changes one undergos over the course of a year. Some of the sassy rants that I’ve posted over the course of my blogging career I find entertaining (yes, I’m the sort to laugh at my own jokes, it’s true), but a lot of them express views that I no longer hold, or views that, alas, I never really held in the first place, as some were written with a specific audience in mind that might approve of or be irritated by whatever point I attempted to make. What I’m saying is: I noticed a trend in my writing of trying to impress whomever I imagined to be reading the entries. You, dear reader. I was trying to impress you.

Not the least significant of these earlier entries was the one I posted last winter about my attitude toward Christmas (The Birth of Santa). This was an entry that I was ambivalent about posting in the first place, since I didn’t actually feel that I’d made my point, and didn’t feel that I could without giving more personal info than I intended, or even wanted, to give–and so I left it as it was.

It’s true that last year was a particularly stressful holiday for me, and I notice already that this year is somehow not. Being involved in a church has made a big difference, as we will be celebrating Advent for the first time ever, but I find I’m also getting excited about the holiday in a way I never have before. I ascribe a fair share of this enthusiasm to the fact that I will not be Christmas shopping this year. At all.

I mentioned earlier that I’ll be making all my gifts, and I think this is helping to turn the season into a more meditative one–making gifts for nearly thirty people is peaceful and repetitive, particularly because I haven’t put it off until the last moment.

Also, I’m excited to spend time with my family, to sing Christmas carols in church, to decorate trees, bake cookies and to not set foot inside a departement store even once. Already, I’m thinking this year will be a good year.

I said "several inches" of snow,

but what I really meant was “ten.” Ten inches of snow. In Bellingham. In November. Unheard of!

It snowed!

Now, usually when somebody from Bellingham says that, people from places where it actually snows roll their eyes and mock our piddly snowfall, as it tends to melt on impact or, if it sticks, amount to a whopping 3/4 of an inch–which is then gone by the afternoon.

But this, my friends, is snow. It sticks! It piles up on shrubberies and sidewalks and makes the roads slick and buries our Subaru under several (note: several) inches of crisp, white covering. It turns fingers pink and sticks to clothes and keeps on coming down.

I think I’m calling us “snowed in,” just because it sounds nice and because we have nowhere else we need to be.

Thanksgiving: an overview

Wednesday: I drive down to Seattle to pick up my brother from UW. We arrive back in Bellingham safely and head over to my mom’s, where Mom and I make desserts (for her, French apple pie; for me, chocolate cheesecake). Mom puts her pies in the oven before realizing that she forgot to add vanilla, and later, as I’m measuring vanilla into my cheescake, the top of the bottle pops off and drops several tablespoons of vanilla into the batter. I test the batter; it tastes like alcohol. We throw it away and start over.

Thursday: I wake up with a pounding headache. Despite a shower and a cup of tea, I go back to bed and do not get up until 11, at which point I inform Mitch (from beneath several blankets, both cats and a satin eye pillow) that I don’t think I’ll be making it to the Rosenburg dinner at noon. He goes without me, but does bring our friend Manis, whose family lives in Florida, and Mitch makes jokes about Manis being my stand-in. They are well received.

By three o’clock, I finally manage to open my eyes, though I still haven’t made it successfully out of bed. Mitch and Manis return to collect me for my Mom’s Thanksgiving–I roll out of bed, put on a skirt and somehow make it out the door (feeling much, much better, though still not great). The house is full of guests and merriment, and it is a lovely evening, though one punctuated by naps on my part. What little I manage to eat of the food is delicious. We all go home full and sleepy.

Friday: The last dinner, at my Dad’s house, is wonderful. I make a puddle on my plate of all my food and eat it forkful by mushy forkful–after nearly two weeks of being sick, my appetite is finally back nearly to where it should be and everything tastes amazing. My brother plays Zelda in the family room after dinner and we watch him until we can’t stand it anymore. We decorate the Christmas tree. Dad tries to make five whiskey sours with a bottle of whiskey and one lemon, until my step-mom scrutinizes his recipe and decides that there has to be more to whiskey sours than that. As it turns out, there is. The result is tasty and festive, though I don’t think I ever actually finish mine.

Apparently "snoggy" is not a real word

In my family, if you go into a store full of breakable things, it’s a “kabosh” store. If a parent says “kabosh,” you put your hands in your pockets–it means “look, don’t touch.”

In my family, when we go out for frozen yogurt, we say we’re going out for “frozen whopper.”

If your nose is stuffed up from a cold and you’re breathing like Darth Vader, we say that you’re “snoggy.” I only recently realized that snoggy isn’t a word outside my familial lexicon when I dropped it in conversation with my boss–I mentioned that I was feeling much better, thank you, though still a bit snoggy, and she wrinkled her nose and asked, “Still a bit what?”

In my family, when we say grace before a meal, we call it “dee-doos”–even in public places. When Mom and I go out to lunch, she grabs my hands, says “Let’s say dee-doos,” and launches into our family grace: “Thank you for our food and for each other, Amen.” Like that, in one breath. Anyone who’s eaten with our family more than three times knows about this and has our “dee-doos” committed to memory.

For a long time I did not think this odd, our deedoos, and then somewhere around high school I did, and I protested, because I wasn’t into all that God stuff, and then I was into the God stuff but I still protested because I wasn’t sure how sincere a prayer “Thank you for our food and for each other, Amen” could really be when you rattled it off every evening without thinking. At some point, though, I realized that it’s a great prayer, concise, to the point, even if we don’t open with “Heavenly Father” or “Dear Lord,” because we know (and He knows) to whom we are speaking.

We have said this for as long as I can remember, and like “snoggy,” “kabosh” and the word “dee-doos,” I have no idea where it came from, but the more I say it the more I love saying it–the chorus of our voices, the squeeze of hands at the end, the reminder that, yes, the meal is lovely, but so is the company. So:

Thank you for our food, and for each other. Amen.

Just down the street there are eagles!

My stepmom took this photo four blocks from where I grew up:

On the mend

“Staying home sick” to me generally means staying in bed all day, watching old movies and eating Jell-O cups. I tend to forget about the “sick” part.

I have been reminded now, but if I could sum up what I did this past week I would say: sleep, watch Arrested Developement, make origami boxes. That’d pretty much cover it.

In other news, Mitch started a blog. More details to follow.

Report from the trenches

I’m on day 3 of being sick, and I have to say that the novelty is definately wearing off, particularly as it’s become apparent over the last day or so that, on top of the head and chest cold, I also have the flu.

Yuck.

Yesterday I braved the outside world on a quest for cough syrup, and by the time I made it back to my warm little apartment I was exhausted. The cough syrup did not help with this: after taking one dose I was down for the count and slept for the better part of the rest of the day. When I was awake I was groggy and disoriented and hungry. Not fun.

Things are looking up today, however. My mom just stopped by, braving my bad flu germs, to bring ginger ale, Progresso chicken noodle soup (a step up from Campbell’s indeed), peppermint tea and some non-drowsy medicine, which I promptly took and (so far) have managed to keep down.

In the meantime, I’m off to watch The Princess Bride, in an effort to keep myself awake.