first snow

Well, here it is. The first "real" snowfall of the year. We had some lovely soft "snow globe" snow yesterday, but no real accumulation. This morning, however, the world was covered in a blanket of white. About three inches, I should think. I turned on the radio to listen to the ridiculous quantity of accidents that had already happened by 7:15, and when it came my turn to brave the white stuff, I grandma-drove all the way to work. (This is an appropriate time to insert how grateful I am to have a garage. It makes me so happy!)

It always bemuses and frustrates me that people are so stupid when the drive on the first snow. Yes, you have to get used to it again. Hello! So drive slowly and cautiously until you get used to it. I'm always amazed how many people totally seem to forget what driving on snow requires--until they slide into a light pole or someone else's rear end. Yes, it was slippery last March, and its slippery again this November. Yes, you need to double your stopping distance.

And no, they don't plow my road. I was wondering about that. The first quarter mile out of my driveway is gravel--and mostly uphill. That last big hill before I reached the pavement--yeah, I was spinning out a little. I can't wait to see what happens when we get "real" amounts of snow. At least things were better once I got to pavement. That's where the plow stopped, see. Right at the edge. I don't know why. Perhaps they can't plow gravel. I've never asked.

So I think I need some chains for my tires. The little Cavalier is plucky, but not indefatigable. At least, I've noted, there is no big ditch for me to slide into. Even if I can't make it up the hill, I probably won't get stuck. I say "probably" to not jinx myself with overconfidence. Perhaps I shall finally get a big bag of cheap kitty litter for the trunk...and one of those emergency shovels.

Or a Land Rover. A Land Rover would work quite nicely. Or a woolly mammoth. I want to ride a woolly mammoth to work. Hm. But where would I park him?

night, driving through rain

You look out the window, smiling your secret smile.
I want to know why.
Is that smile for me? Am I truly in your thoughts,
as you are in mine?
I want to know I want to know I want to know.
I want truths to drop from your lips like pearls.
Your sweet, sweet lips.
Your funny, wry, intelligent lips.

It isn’t a question of clarity, you say. It is a question of…
Well, that’s something you won’t tell me.
I’m just supposed to know. I need to know.
And I am driven exquisitely mad.
I know that I only know enough to know that I don’t know.

Your confounding, sparkling eyes.
That smile again.

The rain like sharp-cut jewels in sound and sight
as headlights flash, wipers wave, tires go
shh shh shhhhhhhhh

things you’re never too old for, part 2

Things you're never too old for:

8. changing the words to familiar Christmas carols

"Later on, we'll perspire
as we dream by the fire
and face unafraid the plans that we made
walking in our winter underwear!"

get back to where you once belonged

Well, the Thanksgiving holiday is over, and I'm back. Back to my alarm clock, back to my desk, back to my computer, back to my lime green travel mug of coffee.

And back to the Christmas season. Yes, we have eaten the turkey, which launches us firmly and legitimately into winter and the Christmas season. And I, for one, am very happy about that. I like the beginning of winter, as I like the beginning of every season. There's that sense of anticipation in the air, the knowledge that the weather is about to do something very interesting. This time of year, we watch the skies for that fluffy white stuff. When it does fall, there's soft, quiet magic. (For a couple weeks, anyway. After that, people get grumpy about it.)

And I love Christmas. I would love Christmas if I didn't get a darn thing, too. As long as I still was able to give, I'd be happy. Christmas is the time where you scatter joy around in as many ways possible. We sing it, shout it, bake it...roll it into snowmen, and coax other adults to snowball-fight it. We play outside until our ears tingle, then come in to curl up by fires with hot, steaming cups of cocoa or coffee or any number of magical winter elixirs; we feel warm, and safe, and very, very alive.

Mmmm. Just thinking about it makes me feel all cozy. But I suppose I'm still talking about winter, here, and not so much Christmas. I have much to say about Christmas. But we've got time. Four weeks and a day, to be precise. Man, I've got a lot of sewing to do before then....cookies and cheesecakes to bake...carols to sing...parties to attend...

And I love every minute of it.

let the stuffing begin

I, personally, have no problem with eating as much as is humanly possible on Thanksgiving. Without feeling guilty. Especially since I'm cooking. Well, baking. I've made a strawberry swirl cheesecake and will make an apple pie tonight. Tomorrow I am just a humble kitchen lieutenant. Clearly, not partaking of the fruit of my labors would be a crime.

If it would make me feel fat and guilty, then I shouldn't do it, right? That is not a happy conclusion. I want to avoid that conclusion. Therefore, I have two choices: I don't eat as much, or I don't feel bad about it.

I'm going with option two: embrace my choice! Yes, I will revel in the food.

Feel the freedom! Eat the turkey! Overload the digestive system! Woohoo!

Richard Simmons's Legs

At the office, some of the girls have started a sort of workout video co-op. We all brought in one or two exercise videos or DVDs and created a bit of a lending library of fitness. Pure genius. Who wants to spend the money on buying untried workouts, especially when so many of them stink? And it is hard to keep doing the same workout weeks on end. It gets boring. So we swap.

Yesterday, feeling a bit humorous, I took home Richard Simmons’s Sweatin’ to the Oldies 2. Oh, yes. I knew it would be terrifically bad. But wicked curiosity got the better of me. And I figured it might still be a worthy workout, even if he scared me.

Oh, he scared me. And the workout was not so good. Not for me. Now, if I were gratuitously out of shape and hadn’t worked out in years, it might be a good place to start. And Richard is so distracting that you might be able to forget about your physical discomfort. Let me put it this way: we did sizzling jazz fingers in the warm-up. ‘Nuff said.

One thing about Richard, though, that I did admire was his legs. I want his legs. They were smoothly shiny (definitely waxed) and gloriously tan. They were trimly muscled and very sleek. Yeah, they were chick legs. And I want them. I should get a picture of them and pin it up next to my workout chart. For motivational purposes. The rest of his body, of course, will be cut off. I just want the legs.

Christmas time is...near

This year, the holiday season has caught me up in its hands much earlier than usual. I’ve always scorned the idea of "overlapping holidays" as I call it, and would never start seriously thinking Christmas until after Thanksgiving. That meant no Christmas music, and very little if any gift preparation.

This year is different, somehow. Perhaps it is the fact that the weather has taken a colder turn, and has flirted with the idea of snow once or twice. The sky is that dim November iron today, the color that lets everyone know that the orange and yellow season of fall has passed into the browns and grays.

And now I’m dreaming of a white Christmas, to the silky sounds of Diana Krall. On my headphones, though, so no one else in the office is forced into a too-early inundation of Christmas carols. Don’t worry; I’m not wearing a sweatshirt decorated with miniature jingle bells (and God willing, I never will).

Perhaps this premature jaunt is because I’ve started my Christmas gifts earlier this year. Now that I’m flying out to visit the fam in Washington state for the holiday, I need everything done early—no spending the entire Christmas-Eve-Day finishing things up and doing all of my wrapping. And no long days of winter vacation in which to make my gifts. I need to fit it into nights and weekends around the regular bustle of life.

Yes, I said "make" my gifts. Welcome to the joy and beauty of the Spoolstra family Christmas. Perhaps I am a bit too burst-my-buttons proud of this tradition, but whenever I see or hear about people rushing around trying to buy this and that and stay within the budget and not get anyone the same thing they got last year and does uncle Jim like gift cards to Radio Shack or was it Circuit City…well, I feel pretty good about myself. Instead of spending hours fighting the crowds and racking up a credit card balance, I’m relaxing at home with my sewing machine—or happily up to my elbows in the fabric store bargain bin—creating simple, inexpensive gifts that show my family I am willing to give them the gift of time and the labors of my hands and brain—not just my pocketbook.

This began when I was old enough to actually contribute something both homemade and worthwhile—around sixth grade, I think. I’m the youngest of three, and as we started to grow up, our parents realized that Christmases around our house were getting…well…ridiculous. I still think the 14-foot trees were out-a-sight, but I highly agree that allowing Christmas to get materialistic is a grave mistake.

I remember being excited about the switchover. Strangely enough. My parents eased us into it by still giving us wonderfully stuffed stockings and one "big" store bought present for the first few years. And it definitely helped that my family is also ridiculously crafty (both meanings? hmm…) and creative. One year my dad made all three of us hope chests. And my mom is the super champ of fluffy flannel pajamas.

My own gifts have come a long way in the last decade or so—a fact for which I am sure the family is grateful. I’ve really progressed since getting my own sewing machine a few years ago. Lumpy crocheted scarves and glue-laden wooden picture frames that almost stood up have turned into clever microwavable mittens and (once, because I was temporarily insane and also because I found the perfect fabric) fitted three-quarter-length overcoats with detachable fur cuffs and collar.

You know, I had a point when I began writing this. I’m not sure what it was. I got caught up in thinking about Christmas and totally lost my way. Perhaps I’m just trying to convey something of the swell of happiness and anticipation that I feel when I launch out into the holiday season. Perhaps part of what I feel is best summed up by explaining this family tradition and letting you connect the dots yourself. Yes. I like that. The end.

tea and sympathy

Poor neglected blog. Nobody loves you. Nobody thinks about you when you're not around. Nobody gives you a call to see if you're free on Friday night. Nobody asks you out for coffee. Sigh. Poor, poor blog.

Well, blog, you're just going to have to learn to entertain yourself, like the rest of us do. Get a hobby or two or three. Perhaps you should try needlepoint. Or tying flies. Join a gym and take yoga-kickboxing classes. Whatever. Just DO something. Don't keep sitting around waiting for someone else to jumpstart your life.

You know, blog, your ten-year high school reunion is coming up in a year or two. If you started now, you could have all your ducks in a row with plenty of time to spare. No need to do any last-minute crash dieting or futile job searching. Get a glamorous career started NOW. Make some interesting new friends and memories. And quit eating Almond Joys with your morning coffee.

guy-friends and boy-friends

I could use a few good men. Don’t mistake me; I’m not greedy—one or two would be just fine, I don’t need a whole platoon.

But I’d take one if you're offering…

Anyway, what on earth prompted this declaration? Lonely singleness rearing its maudlin head? No, not really. I ride the highs and lows of being single just like anyone else, but today equanimity dominates my thoughts of my love life (or lack thereof). Which is good for you—I’m not quite so pleasant to be around on the days I go around singing "I am a Rock, I am an Island" with Art and Paul. But I digress.

I’d like a few more man-friends in my repertoire. I have a few wonderful fellas, but most of them are married and so are not always available for the services I require. Case in point: I can ask a married man to come over and help me cut firewood, but I cannot ask him to be my date to a wedding—even if there’s going to be a kickin’ band that we would both enjoy. It just ain’t right, Myrtle.

There are a lot of varied opinions concerning the true feasibility of coed friendships. Some say that it can never work, that sexual attraction and romance will always interfere. Others believe that coed friendships are completely natural and are possible even after marriage. I’ve read that being "best friends" with a member of the opposite sex is a recipe for disaster unless you marry him. Then I turn to another book, and lo! A woman has a healthy, fulfilling, twenty-years-and-counting friendship with a man who, at some point, married another woman with no adverse effects.

Well, here’s what I think: I like to hike and climb and fish and play tackle football. And I’m very tired of going stag to weddings and swing dances and beach parties. I want to be able to ask a guy to accompany me without him automatically thinking I have romantic intentions. I want to be able to knock a guy down and land on him without him assuming I’m being flirtatious.

I fancy that I never presume a guy has romantic intentions toward me unless he explicitly conveys them. (That may be asking too much, but I am the queen of social oblivion and must occasionally be whapped the head to realize that something’s going on. This has its pros and cons—but that’s a story for another day.) And this is a trust issue. I trust that the guys I hang out with realize that I am counting on them to be honest with me. This can work very well.

Case in point: coed head and back massages may seem to be an automatic no-no. However if, as my case was, the gentleman and I had complete understanding of the platonic nature of our relationship, and if the setting is appropriately public, there is no problem. Nothing de-stresses like a good head massage. Would I ask a married man for one? Of course not—unless we were in the presence of his wife and formed a three-person massage train. Mmm. Arrrr. And if I broached the idea of a coed massage with a guy friend who was not comfortable with that—well, I sure hope he’d tell me, before I started purring! It’d save us both a lot of grief.

Would I have a coed sleepover? Umm…yes, in certain conditions. Three adults (and a large dog) in a small tent? Absolutely. If it were just one guy and me? No. I’m not stupidly ignorant of temptation.

I love outdoor activities, and oftentimes I have a hard time finding girl friends with the same interests. Would I spend an entire afternoon and evening in a secluded location, fishing, with a guy engaged to one of my best friends—who was out of town at the time? Yep. Did that. Would I do it with someone with whom the relationship was not absolutely and clearly platonically defined? No way.

Looking back on the fishing thing, I realized that outside appearances may have seemed a little odd—especially considering that we didn’t catch much the first day, and went out again for several hours the next morning. Alone. But outside appearances mean little to me when those inside the situation—me, him, my girl friend—know exactly what is happening and why. And in this case, we all got to eat some fresh fish.

Of course, this carefree approach to coed friendship is not perfect. I’m a fairly physical person; I enjoy roughhousing more than most of my girl friends, and I am occasionally not aware that my coed physicality is interpreted as inappropriate or even annoying. I’ve made mistakes in the past, and feelings have been hurt, but I think having guys to hang out with is worth the risk. And there are risks in any relationship—coed or not.

And to be fair to myself—I don’t limit my physical contact to the guys. And I don’t smack my guy friends on the bum, either, as per the occasionally-revived antics left over from college dorm days. I’m a little nuts, but I’m not that stupid. Most of the time.