understanding (n.)

I always thought they were. Just recently, the newscaster on the treacherous snow scene (which would currently be anywhere in Portland or the surrounding area) puzzled and frowning at the mysterious white substance in his hand, said, "It's doing something out here now. It's not snow anymore. I don't know what it is."

I hope he's not the meteorologist.

It also made national news. Well. The hours (plural) it takes to get 20 miles right now made the news. The sleet / freezing rain mystery was curiously absent. I will try to forget the screeching sounds of "Willamette" Valley in the newscaster's mouth. Will (as in the name) - a (as in at)- met (as in mets - the team). Now you know, and knowing is half the battle.

Portlanders are decidedly horrible at driving in the snow and I cannot even begin to want to apologize for thinking so. You follow too closely. You move too quickly. You start too forcefully. These are completely in your control, even when one takes into account the sudden onset of the snow and the inevitability of being caught without traction devices.

On the way back from the airport, which should have been a 20 minute drive, I was stuck on the freeway for an hour and a half. Never before has snow felt like the apocalypse. Emergency vehicles were forced to weave their way through stopped freeway traffic (impossible to move over to the right or the left shoulder). Buses and semis jackknifed (bus riders choosing to get off and travel on foot).

And. I was almost out of gas and my high mileage, hanging-in-there car started to overheat for idling so long. Nothing like being stopped in gridlock traffic, nowhere near a freeway exit watching the needle creep to the highest end of the red zone. Additionally, the fact that I had to go to the bathroom - desperately - was frosting on the fluffy white snow cake.

Not that long ago snow was something lovely, even if it, and the ice, did last for 3 months. I remember towns that plowed and sanded. I remember sledding and fearlessly leaving the house for whatever reason I wished.

Nope. Housebound now.

I made them. For four hours I mixed, rolled, cut, frosted the snowmen, the trees, the bells, the ... candy canes. And then I got tired of making them and 20 cookies later, threw away the rest of the dough.


Yes, I DO think dough grows on trees. Or it multiplies in the bowl, pulling a holy Loaves and Fishes act.

Shoes was very grateful for his cookies of deliciousness. Genuinely so. He picked one up and looked at it, scrutinized it carefully and said, "You made me a Christmas Ghost?" (It was obviously a snowman, however. Obviously). But that's ok. Shoes got in the Christmas spirit himself and decorated for Christmas:


A Christmas Totem Pole. It was bequeathed to him by his late great aunt as part of his inheritance. We mean no disrespect to the totem pole. It is just that he did not at all want to buy a Christmas Tree for just him (remember, we now live 4 hours apart). That's creepy, he says.

I told him the truth:

This no Christmas Tree thing lasts as long as we're not in the same town. And for Heaven's sake, quit calling my snowmen ghosts.

not quite a postscript: what you must know about Shoes is that from the moment I stepped foot in the vineyard town to the moment I left, I was taken care of, pampered and loved. He is a keeper, despite his penchant for making fun of my cooking.

Sugar Cookies in special shapes and I have a Bad Relationship. The Angel and The Gingerbread Man are especially problematic, with their heads and wings that just fall off. I swear. They just fall off. Whatever. Coincidentally, the Bell and the Stocking, which obviously don't have wings or legs or arms or heads, also break.

Roll the dough to 1/8" thick? Really?

Then how do I keep them from sticking to the counter (and sure, I floured the surface before I rolled them out)?

Cheryl and I tried to indulge in traditional cooking making this Christmas. It failed miserably. {Turns out I'm also an imbecile at decorating them.}

Shoes called during our cookie making mission and while we were dripping frosting onto the cookies, past the point of them looking at all presentable, past the point of caring, Shoes drops this:

"Sugar cookies? Really? Did you know I was a big fan?"

O, come on. Seriously? Sugar cookies in Christmas shapes? This fantastic man who asks for almost nothing and is mindful of every little detail of our relationship is asking for sugar cookies for Christmas? How can I say no?

How can I say yes? Those little trolls disguised as candy canes. It's just not right.

Two amazing women.

Sometimes you find things you have to share with everybody.

If find = love, then love = share.

My compulsive, detailed-obsessed, you'd-better-realize-who-really-owns-these-images self feels once again compelled to spell out, and certainly not to insult your intelligence, dear hearts, that the following images belong quite fully, wholly and totally to the following ladies and are borrowed here as an enticement to visit them. Consider them a stunning preview of greater loveliness to come ... once you visit their pages. {Protected under copyright, folks. And we don't mess with copyright around these parts.}


Cori
(coridantinimakes.blogspot.com)


Beautiful. On Etsy, wouldn't you know. She's explained how she creates her engaging images, but I have no mind for art. It's an intriguing process and only completely captivating and bewitching. Only.

And Sherri
(seattlesheri.blogspot.com)


A little note here ~ if you supply the photos of your own enchanting clan, she'll provide the wonderfully, meticulously edited cards and announcements. And really. They're completely breathtaking.

So please, go. Visit. Roll sweetly and indulgently around in their talent.

Interesting how the posts around these parts tend to increase when school isn't in session.

And around these parts, things have been a little blue lately. Maybe a little gray. Hard to tell. Still waiting for final confirmation of my final grades, even though I've been keeping close track of all of my points.

{Of course I've been keeping close track of all of my points. That, of course, of course, is a very big part of who I am. Compulsive me needs to see it in print, though.}

Still looking for a job, which, oddly enough {she said somewhat wryly} is still demoralizing. Finally got an interview with OHSU, which, by this girl's accounts, did not go well. As in {big sigh}, I'm not what they're looking for. I do so hope I become what somebody is looking for. And soon! {15 job applications later ...}

Not the season to be blue ... or gray ... or a blah beige. Blech. Christmas break is a little slow when all of your activities center around looking for a job and watching a proliferation of "18 Kids and Counting." {And then letting yourself slip into, Good Lord, I'm 31 and I don't have ONE child yet ... Eh. Happens.}

But really, I shouldn't complain. I did just return from a fantastic weekend in Southern Oregon with my littlest sister. That was good.





And good plans for this week: a shift {one} at the bookstore, a lovely birthday dinner with my oldest friend {plus her kindergartner's Christmas program!}, a trip to the Queen Anne Victorian Mansion with my oldest sister and niece, a pampering hair appointment, and then to the Vineyard Town to spend some much needed time with Shoes. These are all super good things, so I guess I need to pull my super sullen blah beige attitude out of the trash.

Christmas Spirit, you better get here fast ...

Well, not my baby. Remember my roommate Tiffany and baby Madelyn?

O, that was a good year, living with those two. And I'll probably begin the story of Tiffany, Madelyn and the apartment just like that: O, that was a good year.

It was amazing.

One year ago, Hiding Madelyn looked like this:




{Not quite sure what the ribbon was about, but lots of things are hard to explain. Like the time Tiffany gently moved the end of the hammer handle on her stomach trying to re create the sensation of the ultrasound machine to try to get Madelyn to kick from the inside. Glee and silliness abound.} And now, a year later, the baby in Madelyn is fading quickly, and she's turning into a quirky little girl with a Big Personality:



And, of course, sometimes she looks like this:



That probably comes with the personality.

Last Christmas, we had a pre-Madelyn. The end of January, she was born four weeks early. February and March she slept soundly, so tiny.

And then, she started to wake up. It seemed like everything she did socially was advanced ~ she smiled early, engaged people early, laughed early. {Making her laugh her low, maniacal belly chuckle was ridiculously easy}. In an advanced poetry class in undergraduate school, Dr. Axelrod read us a tender poem about a father picking up his infant from the crib. I so wish I could remember the title of that poem or the author; whatever emotion it invoked in me is the same thing that rises up when I think of Madelyn. Before I left the Vineyard Town, Madelyn had just started rolling over.

And my exit marks the end of my knowledge, in many ways. That's all I know. That's all I know personally. Tiffany is so good about sending pictures and videos, but, of course, it's 1/10 of the picture. Madelyn is now pulling herself up to standing. And yodeling, apparently, which I'm pretty sure is normal and listed in "Baby's First Year." ;) But, if I were to be honest, videos and pictures are as close as I'm going to get to Madelyn. And that's ok, because that's how it goes.

And lucky me, I get to see them the week of the 20th.

I'm selfishly hoping it's still so ridiculously easy to make Madelyn Pants laugh.