Dreamweaver--After writing that post last night about trading (or not trading in) my VW for a VW convertible, I had a dream that Susan Sarandon bought me one. And it was blue. Thanks, Susan. That was quite thoughtful.
Snow and a falling tree--When you live in the NW and the weatherpeople predict snow, you go on with your business as if they haven't said anything. Why? Because they usually make a big production about snow, freak everyone out, and then nothing. Of course, I should have known because they didn't make a big production out of this, that we'd be hit with snow.
At one o'clock we went out for eggs. Not because we were preparing for any sort of storm, but because we were all craving French toast. It did not feel like snow. It did not look like snow. There were no snow clouds across the water. There were no signs, no pre-flakes. We weren't even thinking about snow; we were thinking about French toast.
At about 2 p.m, we looked outside and realized it was snowing and snowing hard. By 2:20, we were in our snow clothes and skidding around the deck. My golden retriever was eating the snow as if fell as if it came in flavors. It was wet heavy snow, but nonetheless, snow.
While outside, we made a small snowman, wandered around the neighborhood to see how what others were up to, then returned home and made snow angels on our deck. There is something magical about making snow angels. It's actually pretty amazing lying on your back looking up at a white/grey sky full of snowflakes all traveling down down down around you. It's an image I'd like to see someone paint, but I know it's like taking a photo of a sunset--what you are experiencing is the moment, not the image.
Anyway, once we were soaked, cold, and happy for our snow encounter, we went back inside to have hot chocolate with real whipped cream and sprinkles. While having this treat, there was a crash behind us. Hello falling Christmas tree. Yes, the tree we just decorated yesterday had become the drunk family member at the Christmas party and passed out into the stockings. I ran to grab the tree only to realize how heavy it was. Ornaments skidded across the floor, tree tried to flatten me. D. (who watched with hot chocolate in hand) did not try to help me, but instead said, "It looks like you're dancing with the tree." Yes, I'm sure it did.
It's funny, yesterday when we decorated the tree, it was a treat. A gift. Christmas music, reliving each memory of each ornament we carefully placed on the tree, everyone wanted to help. Today, when the drunk tree needs someone to straighten his tie and sew the buttons back onto his shirt, it's not so much fun. So, the tree is not as cute as he was when he arrived for the party, but he's back in shape and standing straight again. I will stop watering the tree with vodka. I will stop pouring bottles of champagne around its trunk.
Christmas Past--
Every year when decorating our tree, my husband and I look for the three ornaments we hung on the tree during our first Christmas together. I was just out of college and we had just purchased our first house. A tiny home with a sunken living room (the house's only "luxury"). We were pretty much young and broke, but insanely happy. Since we couldn't really afford Christmas ornaments we made due with what we had along with one or two things from a gumball machine.
Every year, we look forward to opening the box of ornaments and finding the fire truck, the plastic mermaid, and the roaring dinosaur because it reminds us both of how much we don't need. It reminds me that happiness doesn't come with French doors or a convertible roof. Happiness is what you find when your house is so small there's nowhere to hide.
Our dinosaur taught me this--
