New Years Resolutions? Really?

How big this little love has become...

New Years resolutions aren't a big thing for me. I don't think they ever have been, but I do remember making some. In 5th grade my best friend Heidi and I resolved to be best friends forever. We made it for quite a while, Heidi and I, but Junior High is a bitch, and so was Beth Hayford, who ultimately became the demise of our friendship forcing us to break our New Years resolution. And clearly I hadn't learned my lesson, as in my 7th grade year I resolved to love John McCarthy forever...or was it Kevin Holmes? I may have switched part way through the year. I don't remember.

Last year I signed up for a 1 month challenge with Kris, my new best friend (we've made no resolutions, but have held strong for 20 years now). This was not a New Year resolution, nor was it to last for a year, yet still I failed. I believe 3 days into it I drank a 6 pack of beer, ate a pizza smothered in pepperoni and bacon and had french fries for dessert the whole while giving the finger to The Challenge.

Yet here it is, the new year, and I'm finding myself wanting to make some adjustments in my life. The 2 big ones I've already faltered on, but is that so bad? Do I write them out and have them staring at me, judging me? Challenging me? Expressing their sincere disappointment in me? What the hell-

I would like to take a one month break from sweets. I do not want to give them up, I love sweets. But I can't decide right now what is a reasonable amount of sweets to consume in a week, so for the next month, I'll spend some time considering how to prodeed with this weakness.

I'll do the same with potato chips.

I will have one meal a day that has absolutely no cheese in it. This may not sound like a big deal, but believe me, it is. Each meal is built around whatever cheese is available in the fridge...each meal.

I will go to bed every night and not fall asleep on the couch....for one month.

I will limit beverages of the alcoholic nature to 2 nights a week. This seems like one safer to add the 'for one month' as well. Tryin' to keep it real.

What else bugs me about me?

Oh yes, and while I'm not eating so much cheese, I will be eating a bit more fruits and vegetables. Nothing specific, just more.

And more water!

There, that's not too bad. These are all good things, and not too strict. Though I see where the "one month" thing comes in handy for the stricter rules. I seemed to keep throwing that in there. I'll have to print this out and study it. I already forgot what I wrote.

Why don't we resolves to do things we know we'll actually do? Like, "In 2010, I resolves to love cheese and wine with all of my heart, and forever more."

Are we really supposed to challenge ourselves in the new year? It's not lent for goodness sake. But now I'm confusing all of these things...wait....lent, we give something up that we enjoy to prove our faithfulness and commitment to God (or something like that), and on New Years...

we think about what we want to change about ourselves to make ourselves better people.

Well, whatever, I just want to lose this cheeseball belly before our wedding in June. That's really my motivation. What can I say I'm just a girl.

Oh ya, and I want to get to the gym twice a week and sqeeze in one more workout, be it a yoga class, a run outdoors, whatever-

So This is Christmas

For years, well, 36 years, I have wondered why adults seem to resent Christmas so much. All these years I have held onto the idea that Christmas is still a delicious time when friends and family put differences aside and come together for one day of peaceful gift exchanging and story sharing and bread breaking. Though my family has not lived up to my holiday expectations since my siblings and I have all grown up, I held a belief in my mind that someday soon, it would be my turn to create the perfect Christmas in my own home, with my own chosen family and my own traditions. If my given family wanted to be grumpy and turn Christmas into a long torturous 6 hours, that was their choice, but mine was going to be...magical.

As we anticipated how everyone was going to spend Christmas this year, it being the first year with my dad gone, it seemed clear that my mom was going to be happiest if she could be with me and her lovely grandson to enjoy his holiday spirit. And so it was arranged in October that my mom would make the journey to Maine and spend a few days with us. Over the following 2 months, each time I talked with my mom, she talked about the drive (8 grueling hours), the weather (concerns it would snow), her dog (the dog cannot be left alone, even for 10 minutes, or will cry and howl and dig at the doors and walls) and even the departure (how sad she will be when it's time to go). It was a little much, but I know my mom well enough to know she was going to worry about this trip until it was over and then go home and wonder where it all went. So I entertained her concerns and assured her again and again that it would all work out fine.

As the big event drew nearer, my own life started to get a little chaotic, as life just seems to do around Christmas time. There were Christmas parties, work parties, birthday parties along with the usual eat ,sleep and work routine. Long story short, one night, after Ken and I had finished a relaxing dinner and completed a schedule for the next 3 days before my mother's arrival, there was a phone call. My mom was so worried about the weather, that she was just going to leave the next morning to be sure she got here okay. She did say she hoped it was okay with me...because she was coming anyway. So for 6 days we would have a house guest instead of 3.

I am not going to relive the many awkward details of the week, though they are still wrapped around my brain squeezing from it precious,precious life. No, I've something more interesting to note today. After a day or so of venting and rehashing, Ken finally pointed out to me that while my mom did come with a heavy heap of baggage that continued to surface throughout the week, that my frustration and discomfort with her really is no different than most have with one parent or another. I could not, would not believe this was true. I couldn't! How could that be? Everyone else's mom seems so normal. If not normal, than unusual in an interesting way. But as I've thought about it, I've remembered the things that make my mom interesting and likable. She's a fabulous artist and she certainly adores her children. She likes to read, and loves her dog. She knits, sews, crafts, makes jewelry, tries new foods, plays piano, writes poetry, was the best 2nd grade teacher Bakersfield Vermont had for 32 years and she keeps a very tidy house.

With all of the childhood carry-on's of my own, I had forgotten there was more to my mom than the doting mother who was driving me bananas. Still, this was a revelation that came to me only later, after it was over, and after I'd talked to about 7 different people who had experienced similar Christmas/parent disappointment.

It was pointed out to me mid-visit by someone that I should really try to enjoy this time while I have it, but I just couldn't relax. The more I tried, the more frustrated I got. I felt helpless in my situation, in my home. I don't wish to do it over, but I do hope for another opportunity to negotiate a visit that will work out more comfortably for everyone.

The other thing this visit brought to my attention is how much weight my dad lifted in rooms heavy with tension. And I was reminded of probably, the, most hysterical laughter that's ever come over me.

It was Christmas break my second year of college, and I was stuck in St. Albans Vermont. I did not want to be home. Not that I had anywhere else to be, but my parents house seemed the worst kind of torture after roaming freely for a year and a half (mostly). I had reached a new maturity level, that charming place all 20 year olds land at some point. I knew everything worth knowing and was disgusted with anyone who didn't agree with me and was certainly pissed off to be wasting my time at home.

My dad and I had built our relationship around teasing my mom, and often sharing with one another silly things she'd said, just for a smile. It was mean, a little, but my mom knew it was happening, and like a good mom, she was willing to sacrifice her dignity from time to time if it meant my dad and I were sharing a laugh. So during very forced conversation at dinner one night, I mentioned that my brother's neighbor was going to the inaugural ball. (Now mind you, when I was reporting this, I thought I was sharing some very exciting, posh, classified information. I said it casually though, like maybe I too might stop by the ball, shake Bill's hand, have a drink, whatever.)(Also noteworthy is that I'm talking about my brother's neighbor, a person none of us knew. This was clearly a deperate effort to bring something up that would be out of my parents league. These ball-goers were the sorts I supposed I would run with some day.)

Anyway, so I make my comment, and my mom perks right up and says, "Oooh, I wonder where they'll be having that this year."

How I cringed at this pathetic attempt to engage with me. My dad chuckled and said in his gristliest Vermonter delivery, "Oh, I think they're hosting it up at the Elk's lodge this year." We both laughed, and my mom blushed her usual blush, "Oh you two."

Finally, finally, when it was time for me to head back to school, my dad drove me. It was a pretty quiet drive. I may have even had my headphones on. We stopped for lunch at some truck stop. I remember looking out the window, wishing I had something to say to my dad, but just didn't. So I sat there. We got our sandwiches and started to eat. My dad started to laugh a little and he said, "What was it your mother said the other night?" He had a twinkle in his eye that just grabbed me.

Neither of us spoke another word for what must have been 10 minutes. We laughed and laughed and laughed. We were crying, wiping our foreheads, shaking our hands out, choking on our sandwiches. We'd have to stand up to catch our breath, only to have to sit back down again to keep from wetting our pants. Our faces were burning red, wet with tears and perspiration. I actually felt sick to my stomach. I have no idea how we finally gathered ourselves, or even how the rest of the trip went. I don't think I could even explain what ignited such hysteria. I think maybe all that laughter was just our sincere love for one another pouring out, and a mutual understanding that there simply wasn't any other way for us to express it. But now that I've rehashed it and have laughy tears in my eyes again, I can say with certainty, it was indeed the best laugh I've ever had.

So I guess Christmas really is just a big pain in the ass. It screws up our schedules, it forces us to get together with people we aren't overly comfortable with, and it costs a bunch of money. Expectations are born and crushed surrounding this day every year. Finally I can see what all of the grown-ups have been grumbling about all these years. It's as though I've stopped believeing in Santa after 36 years of hanging on, hoping maybe...but then Fred, along comes Fred. His sudden curiosity about whether or not our friend Paul is actually Santa, his careful studied opening of each gift, the wonder and joy in his eyes as he walked out to the Christmas wonderland we created for him the night before...

Christmas is his now. And my job is to keep it light and beautiful...and magical.

Bloggin in the moglo

Ugh, I can't believe I'm sitting here in the Morning Glory with a cup of coffee writing in my blog. I don't even like that word, I'm embarrassed to both say it and write it...blog. Anyway, I guess I just found myself distracted from work right now, thinking about my dad and the last week and the rest of my life and my childhood all at the same time, cause that's how it works, it all smashes together in one big blur. And who are these people in these memories? Who was that little who used to curl up asleep under the kitchen table while her mom typed away on the old typewriter (clack! clack! clack!) until 2 in the morning working on a Master's degree? Who was that kid who used to shoot endless hoops at the gym until the coach would finally say she had to go so he could go home to his family? What about that 30 year old woman sitting at a Phish show, miserable from too many drugs and not enough desire to be there, trying to recapture her 'wild and crazy' youth. I have these memories, but don't feel like it could have possibly been me. I can't imagine doing any of those things now. I wonder what I'm doing now that 20 years from now I'll wonder...'did I really do that or did I just see it in a movie?' well ha ha, obviously this, blogging. ah, that word!
But speaking of basketball...while I find it fascinating I used to look forward to 3-4 hour grueling practices every day (it was the only good thing about high school as far as I was concerned) there is one image, not even a memory so much as a photograph in my mind, that will always be crystal clear. My dad's fixed position at every single basketball game. During our basketball games, all of the parents sat on one side of the bleachers, the students on the next set of bleachers next to them. We, the team, sat facing them. We could see who came with who, who was sitting next to who, the cute guy you were hoping would show up, did, the stupid cheerleaders strutting around like everyone was there to see them, like it was their event, and then there were the parents. This set of bleachers was usually full too. My teammates and I, we were all good friends, and all really lucky kids. None of our parents were divorced. It was amazing really. But everyone just sat together, usually the men on one side, and the women, with their knitting, on the other. They'd all be chatter-chat-chatting away. But they were always there. Our parents travelled crazy miles to see all of our games, in terrible weather. My parents missed zero of my high school baseketball games. That's commitment. Anyway, so across from our bench sat our friends and family while behind us was usually a strange mish mash of odd ball students and the different coaches families, and then down from them on the next set of bleachers, the opposing team.
My dad did not sit with the families, he hated small talk, and he didn't like the banter during the game that goes on with these kids games. Everyone yelling and hollaring at the ref's, and the petty grumbling about this one and that one getting more playing time. He just wanted to watch the game, quietly. He would stand at the end of our bench, by the door, leaning up against a set of bleachers. And always next to him, sitting on the one level of bleacher available, pushed up against the wall, was my sophomore English teacher, Mr. Ashton. Great teacher. He taught me stuff I didn't know I was learning, he incorporated life lessons without seeming patronizing. Well, that's not true, he was very patronizing, but very funny. The same dry humor I'd grown up with, so I quite liked him. It was no suprise, this is who my dad chose to watch 4 years worth of games with. They would talk during intermission and whatnot, they were friends, but they were also interested in watching a good game. And we were pretty good.
During warm up's, I'd be looking, looking for my dad. I knew he was probably at the Elk's club, or on his way to the game already, but as soon as he would walk in, I could stop looking for him. We'd usually make eye contact once, and then never again until the end of the game. But I could see him out of the corner of my eye. It didn't make me nervous, it made me want to try harder, play better. I remember one of the things my coach and my dad were always harping on me about was that I didn't shoot enough. I had a pretty good shot, but was so afraid of missing, I would always choose to hand it off before taking the shot myself. One game, I don't know who we were playing, or even what brought my dad to finally speak during a game, but our team was shooting opposite the end my dad was standing. As we ran down the court toward him to set up for defense, I found myself standing right next to my dad. This had happened before, his spot wasn't to far from the end line, except this time I heard him say, "You gotta take that shot kid!" I stopped and looked at him. I was startled, then probably got yelled at by my coach for not staying in the game. That's it, no great ending where I steal the ball and run down for a 3! Swish! None of that. He must have been so frustrated with me to have said anything, knowing he was going to take me out of the game and get me in trouble and make me mad at him too. I think he did have a little draem of my being the star of the team, I think he even saw the potential for this to happen, but I was too timid to ever make that dream come true for him. But he was happy to just have me playing. We liked to talk about the games afterward.
He was good at offering criticism after games, but not bad like one might think knowing my dad. He was pretty fun to rehash the games with. And he was good at helping me shake it off when things weren't going so well too. It was all about the game, the excitement of the competition, that's what he loved. And I think he liked watching his kid play too. Never missed a game. That's love.

The Secret To A Long Life Is Knowing When It's Time To Go

Ken and I listened to Michelle Shocked for a good length of the ride home from Vermont, and this song has been in my head for a couple of days now. It doesn't necessarily speak to the last 2 weeks I've just spent, but it's not totally inappropriate either. Ugh, my dad died 6 days ago. I've felt so many things this last week, but now, sitting here by myself for the first time in days, I feel deflated. I feel heavy, physically heavy. It really feels like there are weights hanging from my shoulders pulling me down. I want to do something, but I can't get up. I started to clean the bedroom, put our clothes away from the trip. This is usually what I do first thing upon arriving home from anywhere. I've been working on the suitcase for 2 days and still haven't finished. I did clean the house thoroughly, but somehow can't manage to get those clothes put away.

I realized today that though I felt strong in Vermont, now that I'm home, it's more of a....tingling fragility...like I just might fall into pieces any moment. Tears are built up behind my eyes just waiting for someone to look at me with that look, that sympathetic look. In Vermont we talked about my dad all day every day, and now I can hardly utter the word 'dad'. It's harder here, but I also know I had to come back to continue my grieving. Unfortunately part of that means talking with all of my loved ones who enjoy my life with me now, and sharing hugs and tears with those who care for me. I say unfortunately because...I don't want to feel this... even though I know I have to. I'm sad, and it hurts to be sad.

Blah blah blah...the point of this return to my blog is to record some of my fonder memories of my dad. I've spent the last many years being so frustrated with my dad for our different views on politics, food, television, living a good life, so many differences. It's hard to grow up and realize you don't have much in common with the person who raised you, but he certainly gave me some good things too and I want to be sure to remember all of that most. So, let's see...

My history with my dad is full of absurdities. He was a real character. When I was young, he struck a deal with me where he payed me a quarter for every 10 minutes I would rub his feet. I actually thought that was a good deal, for a little while. He would play tic-tac-toe with me over and over until I figured out how it was that he won every time, then he didn't think it was as much fun. We would sit and watch The Cosby Show together and we would laugh and laugh. That's what I remember most is the two of us laughing, at anything, often inappropriate things and often at the expense of others.

Church was a Sunday ritual for my dad and I. As a child, I went, not knowing any better. But when I was older, when I started questioning why in God's name did we have to go to church, my mom asked me to just please go because it made my father so happy. I'd always retort, why don't you have to go!?? Anyway, my dad always chose the church that would have the shortest sermon, we would always sit in the back so we could arrive late and leave early, and my dad would inevitably fall asleep at some point in the 30 minutes we were there, sometimes starting a soft snore that would force my cheeks red and send me to punching him in the knee. However, the focus of the half hour was usually not the service, but rather this one row of pews toward the back that had a gigantic pillar at the entrance to the seat. From behind it looked innocently like an available pew, but once you got next to it, you realized there was no casual way to slide into the seat unnoticed (and if this is the seat you are trying to get into, you'd like to be unnoticed because you are obviously very late), and once you started climbing in, you were committed to finishing the obstacle. So while my dad was not so concerned with being at church for the start of the service, I remember him rushing me to get there in time to get a seat behind this row of pews so we could watch the many people try to get into this seat. They would approach the seat with such ease and confidense thinking they'd scored a whole pew to themselves, but as they got closer they'd realize this maybe wasn't going to be so simple. They'd start looking around the pillar to see if there was an easier way to get into the seat. Then they would quickly look around the church to see if anyone was watching. At this point my dad would jab me in the leg with a smirk, as though I weren't already on the brink of peeing my pants trying not to laugh. We would get chuckling so hard our faces would be both red and perspiring. He could really get me laughing. A hearty laugh will always be the greatest thing he gave me, after life itself.

So, the secret to a long life is knowing when it's time to go? I don't know what that song title means to this story. I wouldn't say my dad felt it was time to go, I don't know, I'll never know if that's true. We didn't really talk about stuff like that. He just tried to keep it light.

Screeeech!

Fred's sick. As I sit here typing this, he is curled up next to me on the couch. He's totally zonked out with his crusty little nose and dried up lips and rosy cheeks. He's even snoring a little. This has been the most relaxing day I have had in 1 year 2 months and 10 days. Is it wrong of me to be loving this?
And the other nice thing that has happened as a result of this sickness is that I had my first true moment of feeling like a mom. Yesterday, as the vomit was flying and there were different piles of dirty clothes and towels lying around and I could barely keep up with the diaper changes, I had a moment. I stood in our living room, diaper thrown over my shoulder, scrubbing vomit from the carpet and Fred was standing next to me, feverish, pale and a little wimpery, and I was like "This is it. I am mom." It was a pretty awesome feeling.
I can't help but think of my mom staying home with me when I was sick. Calling in and using one of her own sick days to care for me, while later, going in to work when she was sick. Oh my poor mom. Ha! She was lovin' it! I can see her now, eating chips and drinking coke and reading her book while watching soap operas...me on the couch all covered up and feeling so yucky, but lucky to have my mom right there. I couldn't have made it through those colds and flus without her. I thought it was a sacrifice, but now I know...it was a relaxing day off for ol' ma mere, and a day to cuddle with her sweet sweet baby. So many secrets I'm finding out.
4 hours later...
I guess I've not much to say beyond that. I've loved Fred's flu.
I love even more though, that he has now snapped out of it and is bopping around the house like none of this ever happened.
Oh, but my title...everything stopped when Fred got sick. And I love that too. Fred makes me so aware of my priorities. No matter what's bugging me at work or home, as soon as I felt that fever...who cares? Must care for child. That's it. I love feeling certain of myself.

A Room of One's Own

Let me paint a little picture...a very young and very lovely woman sits quietly in her kitchen nibbling an egg sandwich while her mate and 1 year old son play in the living room. Sounds pleasant right? Well, it is, mostly, and I will fess up now, this woman is me. However, allow me to fill in the background. There is no table or breakfast bar in my kitchen, I have my plate resting on the shelves to the right of me, where we store our cutting boards and blender and stuff. Directly behind me is our trash can and to my immediate left, our refrigerator (which comes in handy you'll find later in the story). I'm sitting in a small chair, hunched down a little, though I don't know why. I'm not trying to stay low, I'm trying to stay quiet and out of sight. What am I doing? Hiding from my child.

These last few weeks, meals have become thoroughly unpleasant for me. It's somewhat reminiscent of the first couple of months of Fred's life, in that I no longer eat meals, but instead scarf them down, inhale them, shovel it in. The reason being, throughout any meal I try to have in my home now, there is a persistent nagging whiner at my side, begging for a bite. If I feed child first, he still wants my lunch. If I try to eat with child, I spend all of the meal trying to keep up with his demand for the next bite, and am then left with my whole lunch still on my plate, and Fred at my side, wanting it. He hangs on my pant leg. He jumps up and down. He whiiiines. He makes sad faces. It goes on until the meal is finished, or I am.

This morning, I took a moment to take in my temporary dining accommodations (because one thing I've learned this year is that everything is temporary), I decide it could be worse. Everything I need is right there, and most importantly, no one can see me. But as I'm sitting there eating my breakfast, I realize how tense I am. I'm so afraid he'll hear me, and know what I'm doing. I imagine his ears perking up to my crunching on something, and running over to the gate between the kitchen and the living room, looking slowly around the kitchen for me, knowing...

Oh, he's caught me eating before without him, and it isn't usually well received. We'll kind of lock eyes, me, the deer in the headlights look while holding a sandwich to my lips, and him, motionless, mouth gaping open, a tender and sad look of betrayal on his face, 'how could you? i share everything with you mama.' then a little anger, 'well screw you then, I'll not share my crackers with you ever again unless you gimme that sandwich right now.' quickly followed up with, 'right now now now gimme gimme gimme now now now' until the food is out of sight.

It was nice to listen to Ken and Fred having fun this morning, but I did fear being found out. So when I decided I wanted a drink, I knew I would risk exposure if I went to get a glass, so I reached into the fridge so quietly, and yes, I did the unthinkable...I drank out of the milk carton. God, even writing that makes me cringe (do I leave this in, can I really admit this??), but that is just how desperate I was to finish my egg sandwich in peace.

Yet even as I write this, as annoying as I'm making it out to be, there is a smirk curled up in each corner of my mouth. They are just so raw and true and honest these little ones. They have no manners, no class, no couth. They want what they want, and they want it now. But when it's me he wants, my lap, my hug, my stories and songs, he needn't have couth nor class. And, as long as I have a little quiet corner to hide from time to time, I'm gonna make it through to the next phase.

Is it really only noon?

Dear Blog,
It has been 4 days since my last shower. Though Fred is napping and this would be the opportune time to take care of this problem, I felt the urge to sit and write to you to help clear my mind for the rest of the day. This morning during my run, I was having one of those 'lost in my own head' moments that made the 30 minutes fly by. I was having a meditation of sorts on the treadmill itself, thinking about the machine as a symbol. Maybe not even a symbol, but for exactly what it is, a place where I stand (or run) that is stationary, but allows me the time to think about what I need to think about. I was asking myself, why do I like running? Is it simply a form of exercise? Am I running away from something? Or toward something? I began to make lists in my head. What might I be running from? Poor health, old age, illness, death. And what am I running toward? Good health of course...feeling good, looking good, looking awesome!, But on the treadmill, I am just there, literally, going no where, allowing all of this energy built up in my head to fuel my legs and to move it! It calms me to move that fast. I don't think I am really running though to gain something or to get away from something, these are just the things that keep me going when my legs start to get tired. These things and more. I think about my dad, sick from chemotherapy and what he might be thinking about sitting in his chair reading his paper. What is going through his head? I think about how proud I was when I ran in the Vt. Sap Race which was close to 10 miles, and hope I can muster up the determination to stick with this to run in the 1/2 marathon this year. I think about my high school basketball coach and how his short time here was so much more rich and fulfilling than many who live to a ripe old age. And I think of him standing beside me clapping his hands saying lovingly but firmly, "C'mon Maginn, 5 more minutes. You can do it! C'mon!" I think about Fred, and how much he has made my life much more important than it ever would have been without him. I think about that crazy bitch who just stabbed her 8 year old son and hope she is publicly stoned. I reflect on how some of my morals have changed now that I'm a mom. I look at the people on either side of me and wonder what they are running for. Somehow, this makes me feel very small. I am just one little person with so many thoughts, worries, fears, joys, jokes and loves. That was just a moment of my treadmill meditation this morning. Shift gears-

Since then, the day has seemed to turn on me and drag on and on....

I hate this winter. I hate this winter. I hate this winter. Is it gone yet? Oh, the first problem with this winter, is my super fancy awesome winter boots are at the cobblers being patched. Since they were just one year over the guarantee, I was offered no replacement, but instead to have the repair paid for. Seemed nice. The repair is $10, and is going to take 4 weeks. Not so cool. This has left me no winter boots in the midst of what I must refer to as the most tedious suckiest bleckiest of winters...ever! The roads aren't plowed, the cars are a mess, my winter jacket is a mess, the dog can't run around in the yard and Fred still needs to be carried everywhere making every chore much more challenging than it needs to be. As I walked around town today with Fred in our front pack, I wobbled along down the middle of the roads, sliding around through slush and ice islands that will be a permanent part of the road until June no doubt. I made it to the Rite Aid. Huh?, they're open but I have to go to the back door? Too far from here to there, and so much more snow to plod through. Ah, the bank. I can put my bag down and readjust. I look through my bag for my check to deposit. Sigh. I've left it at home. Next stop, West End. Quick and successful. I go to cut up through a nearby driveway to get to my car quickly without having to walk around town, but oops, there's a big snow bank. I walk around the other side of the building, oh, another snowbank. What the Fuck! I have to grunt loudly. The old lady standing outside smoking her cigarette must have seen the embarrassment on my face. "Ain't plowed to good did they?" I smiled and then walked around town to get back to my car. Well, of my 6 errands, I got 2 done. Good enough. On the way home, I realize I have left my large hot delicious Morning Glory coffee on top of the car. The coffee I had been waiting for since 6:30 this morning. I glanced back over my shoulder, and there it was, all over the back window. Tears welled in my bottom lids. I looked at the clock. 12:10. You've got to be kidding me. Okay, I'm going to shower now, fer reals! And Lost is on tonight! All hope is not lost. Oh, ha ha, see what I just did there? You really get me blog.
What I know for sure Oprah? I am not going outside again today.