It may or may not be cold outside. Merry Christmas!

Frankly, it’s 54F outside right now, and the forecast high for today is in the 60s.  On a couple of days next week, it’s supposed to be in the 70s.  I will now duck your thrown punches. So, pretty much, no, it’s not really very cold here in Austin, TX.

Last year we had snow a week into the New Year (we were still living in Nashville).  Braden expects it this year, and I keep having to tell him we will probably not see it.

No matter the weather, we’re enjoying some Christmas spirit in our home right now.  We’ve been tracking Santa already and are currently watching The Polar Express.  I sense there will be cookies consumed later today – along with our usual brunsli and spitzbuben, I made these monsters yesterday.  Hey, at 433 calories a cookie, it eats like a meal! (Better get out my stretch pants.)

It’s been a wonderful holiday season, from the lights to the tree and the anticipation of the big day itself. Braden’s first time sitting on Santa’s lap and talking to him was a rousing success. My heart definitely grew to three times its previous size.

Now it’s Christmas Eve, and before I completely lose myself in:

• trying not to cry at the insanely joy-filled excitement spilling out of my son (already failed)
• The Polar Express, A Christmas Story, Elf, and National Lampoon’s Christmas Vacation
• a pile of wrapping paper, tape, and cursing ribbons
• smoked salmon, crackers, wine and… yeah, really need to put on those stretch pants soon.

I wanted to share a little ditty with you guys that John and I recorded (home studio + talented musician, FTW!) earlier this month for The Fifth Annual Blogger Christmalhijrahanukwanzaakah Online Holiday Concert, hosted by Neil.

Just click the link below to listen to our version of Baby, It’s Cold Outside.  And whether it really is cold out for you or not, I hope this warms your heart and spreads a little of our Christmas Joy to you.

Baby, It’s Cold Outside

From our family to you and yours, have a very Merry Christmas.

Happy Holidays, my friends!

my, how the time does pass

one moment i was looking at this:

and i seem to have blinked.

the very next moment, i opened my eyes upon this:

and that is both intensely beautiful and horribly frightening to me.

And the townspeople were safe once more.

Braden is sick again and that means he’s coughing in that special way that toddlers have which makes you clench up and wait for the inevitable choking sound every.single.time.  Over and over again, I listen to him gag and gasp and make the phlegmy struggling sounds for breath that keep my blood pressure just a little higher than it really ought to be.

Last night he couldn’t sleep, and was pulling out one excuse after another to climb from his bed and yell down the stairs to us.  His pleas for us to turn the music on, then off again, to find his toy car, and to turn on the light were all mingled with whimpers and punctuated by cries and sometimes soft, tired moans.  Every request was just code for, “I need you, please come be with me, I’m feeling poorly and I just can’t be alone tonight.”  Mommy is the ultimate translator – all those words and words and words, but a Mommy can see right through them.  They pour off either side of the real request like oil parting and running this way and that on the surface of turbulent water.

But this night it was not just Mommy to the rescue.  Often Mommy has to be the one who answers the call, who throws her hair over her shoulder and dashes off, valiantly. Mommy is so often the one who is here, so Mommy plays the heroine.  But sometimes I get to fold my cape up for a beat.  I write my story, I speak from my point of view.  But he cuts through my view, too.

Daddy.

He listened to the translation of messages Mommy could hear floating down the stairs.  When Mommy came down after a visit with the little sleep fighter, he heard all the things she said about little boys who are  terribly unable to fall asleep because ohhh, they are just in need of togetherness and tender closeness.  Mommy, who was distraught because of deadlines and projects.  Mommy, who felt torn between work commitments and life priorities.

Daddy saw the worry and frustration on her tired face, and even though he had already done the bath routine and the bedtime routine, he smiled kindly, then set his face and stood up.  He dashed off to go sit with the unwitting mini-villian upstairs, who was really just a little boy making too much noise for his tiny, tired body, until he could be tricked (loved) into falling comfortably asleep.  He went in search of hugs and cuddles that would be stronger and more fierce than coughs and sneezes.

He answered the needs of the boy and the needs of the Mommy, all in a single bound.

I briefly saw his brightly colored cape flap at the corner of the stairwell right before he disappeared from view and I continued to tap at the keys, only momentarily wondering who that masked man was.

I would like to take an informal survey.

Don’t worry, I know your time is valuable, but I assure you, this is a very important matter.

Let’s say HYPOTHETICALLY that I was sitting on the couch watching TV. I’m watching, ohhhh, let’s say Big Bang Theory.

Then, what if John, my husband, came downstairs, grabbed the remote, and started flipping channels. WHILE THE SHOW WAS ON, NOT DURING A COMMERCIAL.

Would you think that it would be overreacting for me to FREAK THE HELL OUT and start snatching at the remote? How about if he gave me a shitty look and then both refused to let me have it back and did NOT return to the channel and show I was enjoying before he entered the room like some kind of Assholian Dictator?

If this kind of a scenario, or you know, something like it, happened, then would it be kind of over the top if I lost my shit and yelled, “WHAT THE HELL IS WRONG WITH YOU!??” while visualizing myself strangling him until his lips turned blue and fell off? Would that just be too much?

I mean, it is only television after all. What do you think?

You know, I’m just wondering, in case something like that ever actually happens and I had the strong urge to beat my husband about the face relentlessly with the remote once I finally did snatch it back.

This way, I’ll know if it’s justified or not.

Thank you for your time.

A transformation.

It’s a ring.

When I’m asked what Christmas gift I remember the most, this ring is the first image that surfaces in my mind. One of the most beautiful opals I have ever seen sits like a regal queen atop a shining, golden band. On each side of her, like ladies in waiting, is a tiny diamond, twinkling playfully.

I am not obsessive about jewelry. I appreciate things of beauty, and with these types of decoration I tend to gravitate towards simplicity.

I had never before received expensive jewelry from a lover. I had never really desired it, to be honest. Regardless of that, I found this piece perfect. When I opened the box, I was floored and pleased.

It is beauty, basic and true. I loved it immediately, and still do.

A person special to me worried over the selection of this ring. He had labored over this choice, and this ring had spoken to him.

While it is certainly true that the ring is stunning, that is not why it is my most memorable gift. There is magic in my memory of this gift, but it is not because I received the ring on Christmas day.

The real magic lies in what it later became – an engagement ring. The man who painstakingly chose that gift for me did not know that later I would switch the hand on which the Queen Opal rode, as promise to marry him.

My most memorable Christmas gift was a pretty, shiny adornment that later transformed into a symbol of love, basic and true.

Beautiful.

******

Today’s post is my answer to The Gift, a writing challenge at {W}rite-of-Passage.

The following people took the challenge, too.

About menstruation, armpit hair, floaters, etc…. oh, and writing well.

So, I’ve been quite brilliantly not writing near as often as I used to here for some time now. I’m perfecting this art I like to call “Ignore Your Blog Until It Dies.” I think I’m doing a *really* good job. Only, I keep popping back into frame and, you know, it’s because I love you. And because I like to run my proverbial mouth write. Also, a little bit because of how good you look in those jeans, and that you’re kind of slutty. But mostly the thing about how I like to write. Yeah.

I used to post something every day – and while I’m not interested in pushing myself to a “per day” schedule anymore, I do want to get back to writing more often. And because she’s awesome like that, Leslie (aka Mrs. Flinger) has been thinking of this whole “let’s get back to writing” thing, only she actually wants it to be GOOD WRITING (oh, shit) and after several email brainstorming sessions with a group of amazing women (I think someone added my name to the email list by accident, but I wasn’t going to rat myself out) there’s a little movement, or community, going.

Leslie has launched a Ning site to fuel this, and it’s called {W}rite of Passage: taking the challenge to write well.

So I’m jumping in. I’m going to take the challenges and post my shitty drafts in answer to them here for you to look at and laugh while you point and say, “this shit is supposed to be good writing? BAHAHAHAHA.”

Of course, instead of just being a turd, you could join the network and get your ass in gear, too.

Today’s Challenge? Embarrassing story.

And you know, I am having a little bit of difficulty coming up with a topic because I never have embarrassing things happen to me, and I never do embarrassing things.  I have a hard time even understanding what this whole “being embarrassed” thing is like.  I am poised, confident, and graceful.  Whether by luck, chance, or higher power, I am immune to awkward situations.  All of the stories of my life are calm, without incident, and there is truly a spirit of class and dignity that surrounds all that is moi.

Also, pigs fly out of my butt and there’s a unicorn eating rainbow striped cotton candy on my back lawn, right next to the leprechaun who is counting out all the gold he’s going to leave on my front step later today. Now, excuse me, because it’s time for me to go climb on the back of my friendly, neighborhood dragon and go for our regularly scheduled flying playdate with Peter Pan and Mary Poppins.

I am having trouble because I’ve already written here about all the most embarrassing topics that come to mind immediately.  Like when my mother announced that I’d started my period in front of our male, European house guests.

Who do you tell?  If you’re like me, you tell your mother.  And you don’t enjoy it.  But you get it over with, and then you expect it to go away.

You don’t expect to be washing the dishes after dinner, minding your own business, and have your mother practically float into the room on her Mommy Pride and gush about it to the two MALE, European house guests sitting at the kitchen table.

They speak very little English, but you quickly see that they have perfected that Creepy Guy Look Of Knowing And Thinking Ew Things, because they are aiming it right at you.  Picture it, right now.  If your skin didn’t crawl, you don’t know what I’m talking about.

I.Couldn’t.Believe.She.Had.Done.That.

She CLEARLY hated me. I was SURE of it.

I just wanted to DIE.

Or the story of my first pit hairs.  Yeah.

I remember when I first started getting armpit hair.

I was mortified.

My mom?  Was excited.

I was sitting on her bed, with my hands behind my head, all chilled out, leaning back.  I can remember her noticing the armpit hair and pointing it out, smiling and gesturing.  The expression on my face had to have been one of complete and total terror.  She, on the other hand, was dangerously close to suggesting we should have a parade for my pit hair.

I could see myself on the lead Pit Hair Parade! float, my arms strapped up and to the sides.  Large spotlights would aim at my pits and flower adorned arrows would be positioned to point right at the tiny hairs there, in case people were not aware that LOTUS.HAS.PIT.HAIR.NOW!!!

I slapped my arms down, and tried to change the subject, while mentally willing with all my might that time would just stop.  Maybe God really did exist and I could pray to him right now to erase this?

Because it was embarrassing.

Or maybe you’ll remember when I talked about how I made sure that John would truly fall madly in love with me, one day becoming my husband.  I had a foolproof plan, really.  All you dating ladies should try this out on your man.

John told me that when we were first dating, he had an interesting experience. He was visiting me at my apartment in Winston-Salem, NC. We had been hanging out, laughing, having fun, etc. He had to pee. He got up… walked down the hallway, and went into the bathroom. Closing the door, he turned around, and lifted the toilet seat.

And witnessed a large, brown floater.

Sexy or what?

And you’re probably thinking that I *forgot* to flush.  Ah, foolish one.  Everyone knows that Surprise Shit is the way to a man’s heart. It’s either that or food. Or blowjobs. Or something. Clearly I’m an expert.

When it comes right down to it, a great many of my embarrassing situations don’t really stand out because they are the majority of the strands that weave the I’m A Dumbass Idiot tapestry of my life.  It all just blends together to create the badass that is Loter.

So what if I’ve puked on the side of the highway in my underpants?  Big deal if I drove a car up past the parking space and actually right into the wall of a building once?  No problem if I leave my wallet at home when I go shopping, hold bows up to my crotch in department stores, lose my car in parking lots, say horribly stupid things to people in practically any social situation, walk into doors and fences, or melt my food processor in my oven because I was too lazy to clean it and instead shoved it in there so I wouldn’t have to look at it anymore and then forgot and preheated the oven for dinner while it was still inside, like a completely idiotic assface? So what if I write long, run-on sentences just because I like the way they sound in my head and think you should, too?

So what? I am still awesome.

And I’d love to delude myself talk about that in detail, but I really have to go now.  I need to put on my magical, vanilla-scented Invisibility Suit and take my pet dinosaur for a walk down our gold-paved street.

*******
Here are more people who took the “Embarrassing Story” Challenge today.

Join up at {W}rite-Of-Passage and then add yours, too!

The rhythm of our lives.

He shifts his weight
And moves on

From miles away
He says he loves me
I say it back
Then he moves on

It’s quiet at night
So much emptiness to fill
With nothing

For a spell
He returns

I stand in the kitchen
Like a cliche
I balance on heels, making dinner

Laughter floats in waves
Through the house
Echoing off the walls
Like bouncing balloons

It swells and ebbs
It rolls back and forth
Like tickle fights

There’s football on TV
My feet find comfort
His hands find my back

Our bed is warm again, briefly

Then he shifts his weight
Says he loves me
And moves on again

Takes his music and goes

Alone, in the quiet night
I can remember the melody
And hum it myself

We stay behind
Hold it down
Occupy our time

Here and there

We shift
and wait.

in your absence

here one minute
gone the next

did i take for granted
the time we had

there’s an empty spot
on this couch with me

the curve on my side
where your hand likes to be

a record skips in my head
instead of your laughter

there is music far away
it falls from your fingers

still i hear nothing
but the beating of my heart

the only way to stop
the ache in my chest

is to close my eyes
under the stars

and wait for the melody to fade