Bright copper kettles and warm woolen mittens...

Today was mighty, mighty cold.

Tonite was even colder!

I took the opportunity to wear a pair of leggings under a pair of tights under a pair of knee socks under a pair of riding boots.

On top of all that I layered on a wool scarf, a velvet jacket, a knitted cap and cozy gloves.

Amazingly enough, I didn't end up looking like Frosty the Snowman--I retained my girlish figure!

Other than cuddling up under flannel sheets and down comforters (or snuggling next to a hot, crackling fire), I love layering on the warm, wooly, fuzzy, cozy, heavy layers and textures that are only really appropriate in atrociously freezing weather.

I like the feel of my scarf nuzzling my neck.

I like the smell of my gloves after getting a little bit too wet scraping off the car or throwing snowballs at my girlies.

I like that achingly subtle itch and relief after taking off my cap and giving my head a thorough scratch.

Then, after peeling off all of those layers, rubbing out my hair, and stripping down to my birthday suit...dipping that first toe into a hot, steamy tub and settling in for a nice candlelit soak with a hot chocolate or a glass of red wine.

Yes, the cold makes us contract and shiver and shake...but it gives us the best excuse to get close, layer up, and turn up the heat.

What more can you ask of a winter's day?

Let It Snow, Let It Snow, Let It Snow!

For the first time in my life I am singing and smiling in the wake of a major dump of the fluffy white stuff.

Although I have lived in it all of my life (ALL. OF. MY. LIFE!) I have no real use for snow.

I don't like the cold. I don't like driving in it. I don't ski. Well, I did try downhill once (I basically flew down the mountain really fast & then crashed to stop) and cross country once (I'm just not in that good of shape--it's hard!), but I'm really more about looking cute and sipping a drink next to a fire.

I will go sledding (like, maybe once a year) and I dig ice skating--but is snow really necessary for that?

There are only two reasons that I have ever been happy to see snow: Christmas and when it covers up all the ugly left in the wake of Winter's cruel and unusual punishment of everything.

However, for some unknown reason, I am in a good mood that started a couple days ago and is still going strong--even in the face of my buried car, stir-crazy cats, and winter wear strewn across my living room, stairs, and dining room table.

I scraped off my car to go buy ice melter for the porch and sang a jolly tune as I worked away. I stepped carefully across ice (so much more slowly than my usual quick pace) and smiled at those I passed instead of muttering my impatience under my breath.

I even noticed the amazing sparkle in the snow dragged into my house on my boots and thought for a minute I must be hallucinating because the dazzle was SOOOOO dazzling.

Snow blindness is something I've heard of, and I must be experiencing it because I am actually grateful to see the snow today. The frigging freezing temps we've been having (with nothing to show for it) were beginning to get to me.

If I'm going to be freezing my ass off, I want something tangible to blame--and a bright, sunny, blue sky is not good enough. In fact, it's downright confusing. When Savannah was about three years old, one frigid, sunny day she burst out the front door in her bare feet and no coat as I watched her look of exultation melt into one of horror.

She didn't understand.

It was sunny. The sky was blue. How could it not be summer? She looked at me and, with an incredulous look on her face, said, "Has this ever happened before?"

Sadly, I explained to her that it had. And it would happen again. And again. And again.

But not today!

Today we got our reward for living in these gorgeous mountains--a healthy dose of Christmas Cheer dumped right on our doorstep from the heavens above.

Rock, Paper, Jesus

Since Christmas is the day we observe the birth of Jesus, then I thought it would be appropriate to commit at least one entry to Him that has nothing at all to do with the holiday.

Marius, my little friend who many of you may remember from Halloween (I'm not really Spiderman, either), is a seemingly unending source of quality blog fodder.

The other day he and his brother, Darien, were playing Rock, Paper, Scissors. Marius is the kind of kid who always likes to win--and will bend the rules as needed to ensure his victory. Sometimes this passionate quest for glory ends in smiles and laughter, and other times it ends with violence and tears.

On the auspicious occasion of the game in question, Marius' determination to win was as vibrant as ever. After several turns of winning and several more of losing, he decided he had had enough.

Terri was half-way listening to the interminable rounds of Rock, Paper, Scissors, when she heard something she didn't expect.

Darien and Marius were saying, in unison, "Rock...Paper..." and when it was time to reveal their weapon of choice and see who came out the victor, she heard Marius say (without a hint of mischief, if you can believe it!) "JESUS!"

When she asked him what he had said (just to make sure she had heard correctly--she had) and why he had said it, he told her "Jesus beats everything!"

Darien thought it was unfair, but Terri (Christian woman that she is) couldn't help her firstborn out this time--she had to agree with Marius' insightful (if devious) observation.

So many parts of me love this incident. I think of how many times in my life I've been playing a futile game and needed to cry out, "Jesus!" Foolishly enough, I have to admit that I probably don't pull that card as often as I should. But, every time I do--even after months (or years) of ignoring His willingness and eagerness to answer my call--I always win.

Fa la la la la...la la la la

(Okay--this is kind of a cheat, but my stupid Internet was freaking out last night, so I had to improvise. For those who saw this post last year, enjoy again--for those who did not, hope you like it!)

I love Christmas music. I like the jazzy, jaunty tunes by Bing and Ella and Andy Williams. I like the traditional carols, beautiful and reverent (although ALWAYS a bit too high for me at some point!) I like the Mickey's Christmas CD that my girls loved to hear over and over when they were little.

But this year, my most favorite type of Christmas music is a sub-genre that I've discovered: "Pervy Christmas Songs." And it is more pervasive than you might think (if you're listening for the right things, that is!) In the spirit of the season, I offer this gift to you--my top three Pervy Christmas Songs--for your enjoyment:

#3--Santa Claus Is Coming To Town: This classic children's favorite boasts among its famous lyrics, this key pervy line: "He sees you when you're sleeping/he knows when you're awake/he knows if you've been bad or good/so be good for goodness sake." I think that the Santa of this fine tune must have been the inspiration for the obsessed stalker in the Police song Every Breath You Take. And not only does this cheery tune boast advanced stalker imagery, but there is the lightly-veiled threat at the end about being good...or else.

#2--A Kiss A Toy from the 1970 animated TV classic "Santa Claus Is Coming To Town": Every year Gabi and I hold our own version of MST3K and make merciless fun of this ridiculously silly show. We impress ourselves with our ability to come up with new witty barbs each year and, of course, pull out our favorite insults from years past. ("You must not play with toys children, you must play with fire!" --Gabi) But the piece de resistance of this entire production is the song Good Ol' St. Nick sings to the sad children of SomberTown. "If you sit on my lap today/a kiss a toy is the price you'll pay/when you tell what you wish for in a whisper/be prepared to pay/so give a little love/get a little love back/" Do I really need to say anything more?

#1--Baby, It's Cold Outside: Don't get me wrong--I LOVE this song. It's one of my favorites. However, it has become impossible for me to listen to the persuasive insistence of the "gentleman" without thinking of it as the consummate date-rape song. The more the woman insists on leaving, the more he pushes her to go against her own wishes. He offers her booze, the threat of freezing to death, and pushes her to feel guilty with lines like "How can you do this thing to me?" It's a textbook example of how to NOT take no for an answer.

So, at this most WONDERFUL time of the year, take a few moments to lend a different kind of ear to your favorite tunes and see what fun discoveries (and perversions) you can discover!Happy Holidays!!! :)

Deck the Halls!

Today we Christmased up the place.

I love decorating for Christmas. I always have.

I remember hounding my mother to let us decorate the house. She was always reluctant, but I loved to be able to mine for holiday treasures. No matter how many times I came across the ice cream cone ornament I made in second grade or the rocking horse I got from Japanese business men my dad had entertained for work one year, I delighted at the sight of them again and again.

It was like drinking something really bubbly and feeling those bubbles travel across my tongue, down my throat, past my heart and finally settling somewhere near my belly button.

I still have that same feeling when I unpack the Christmas garb that my girls and I have collected over the years.

This year everything is kind of awesomely tragic for me. It's Savannah's last legally-obligated year to live with me, decorate the house with me, be home for Christmas. As I looked at the different ornaments and pictures from the Ghost of Christmas Past that I like to display every year, I couldn't help but feel the tug of times a-changing.

After my divorce I decided that we needed a new Christmas tradition that wouldn't leave us hemorrhaging from the gaping hole where our former family structure used to be. Since the tree had always been a pretty significant part of our Christmas ritual, that's where I focused my attention.

I thought it would be cool to get everyone their own, personal Christmas tree. I had seen darling, potted Norfolk Pines at the grocery store and wanted to get three of those instead of one big tree. After a little convincing (and bribing them with new lights, garland, etc.) the girls were on board.

When we got home from picking out our trees and decorations Gabi, in all her innocent excitement, proclaimed, "This is better than when Dad was here!" It broke my heart.

Since that first year of multiple trees, we have alternated between one big tree and three small ones. This year, we went with the little ones. Savannah and I decorated ours today--Gabi is going to get to hers when she doesn't have a better offer to occupy her time and attention.

Now, I'm sitting in the glow of Christmas lights, listening to holiday tunes by Frank, Bing and Ella, and I feel those same, familiar bubbles traveling downward to tickle my belly button.

Please Put a Penny in the Old Man's Hat...

Savannah has adopted Jesus this Christmas.

She figures this makes her the Virgin Mary.

At Weber State the Salvation Army put up an Angel Tree, and Savannah (after perusing the names of the children hoping for an "Angel" this Christmas) couldn't resist the appeal of 14 year-old Jesus (we know it's 'Hey-seuss' but the correlation is irresistible!) who wanted a remote control helicopter and needed winter clothes.

Savannah snatched Jesus off the Angel Tree and went straight to Toys R Us to answer his Christmas wish for a helicopter. The helicopter tapped out her unemployed high school senior budget, so she decided to ask for contributions to get Jesus a winter coat.

I decided that there was room in the figurative inn of my Christmas budget to take in Jesus.

Savannah and I went to look for a coat. I had doubts about whether a coat actually fulfilled the requirements of "winter clothes." I felt that if he already had a coat, another would be useless to him--but jeans and a sweatshirt are something a teenager can always use more of.

After listening to my brilliant argument in favor of actual clothes to meet the need of winter clothes, she agreed.

That was the easy part.

It is difficult enough to pick out clothes for teenagers that you live with daily (Gabi) let alone guess what some unknown Jesus would think was cool. We didn't want to give him clothes that he would feel foolish to wear--or worse, would NEVER wear!

We didn't want to give clothes that seemed like they were for someone who was "needy." We didn't want them to seem stereotypically picked for a kid named Jesus, either.

This was tricky.

After ruling out most of the clothes we came across ("Grey is too depressing." "That's totally a skater shirt--what if he isn't a skater?" "It's a football team, I don't even believe in football!"), we finally settled on a pair of distressed, relaxed-fit jeans--they even came with a belt--a red hoody that was a skate brand, but not overbearingly skate-ish, a grey thermal shirt with a cool design on the chest, socks & gloves.

We felt pretty proud of our outfit and were sure that Jesus would be proud to don this gay apparel come Christmas day.

Then we showed Gabi.

She was hiding her smirk behind her hand.

"What?"

"Those pants are...different."

This from a girl who only wears skinny jeans--and I mean skinny. Apparently, from where she's sitting in her skin-tight legwear, it looks like everyone else is buttering up their legs and jumping off the roof to get into their pants too.

I believe that skinny jeans are a lifestyle choice--and one that no one else can make for you.

Savannah delivered the goods to the keepers of the Angel Tree, and we'll never know if Jesus digs his new duds or not. But I kind of think he will.

Savannah is a girl whom I worried about in her younger years. I was afraid she was becoming a consumerist monster. She got everything she ever wanted, and didn't seem thankful for any of it. She would tear through the packages, give the gift a cursory glance, push it to the side and ask, "Next?"

For that little chica to have grown into a young woman willing to spend all her extra cash on a remote control helicopter for a kid who has it worse off than her, I have to believe in miracles.

And she's spreading the love this year--making Christmas a little bit merrier for a teenage boy who will get the toy he really wanted and an outfit that will not only be warm, but (hopefully) something he can wear proudly.

The Goose is Getting Fat

I have a wild hair up my arse about creating a traditional, Victorian English Christmas dinner this year.

The cornerstone of this fantasy dinner should be a goose; however, I have found that finding a goose ain't that easy. I can get one online for around $105 plus shipping, and Terri found a frozen one at Target for $50. This seems like a big investment for something I'm not sure will even taste good.

My mom suggested that I find a hunter. She cooked goose one year and the bird was able to grace our table courtesy of her boyfriend at the time who had shot it himself.

Considering my friends and acquaintances, I quickly deduced that I was unlikely to find a hunter to provide my holiday goose.

Then a Christmas miracle happened.

I was working on a project with another consultant at work, and she informed me that her husband was gone for a week. When I asked her why, she said that he was hunting geese in Montana.

"Really?" I asked. "Geese?"

"Yes, do you want one?" she answered.

As I eagerly confirmed that I did, indeed, want one, it slowly dawned on me that if her husband was to deliver a goose to me I would have to deal with it: feathers, innards, head.

Was I that committed to my idea of a traditional, Victorian feast? Did I have the stomach for it? Part of me instantly felt certain that I could--and WOULD--do it. I would be amazingly, mind-bogglingly, genuinely triumphant in my quest to take an actual animal and turn it into something served beautifully on a festive platter.

Then I thought about it some more.

I started determining who I knew that could do the dastardly deed for me and return the bird to me looking more like food and less like wildlife. I made plans to ask for a second goose from the husband so that I could use it to barter my way out of de-feathering the thing myself. I began calculating how I could come up with the money I previously eschewed spending on the gamble of a goose in order to pay someone to de-goosify the goose.

Even without me doing the hard work, this goose quest was turning out to be quite a pain in my stubborn, determined arse. In the bright light of freshly-hunted bird reality I don't know what I'll do if I actually get a dead bird delivered to me. But I'm pretty sure it will be memorable--and, hopefully, tasty.