Birthday Celebration

It was a dark and lonely night, the fog so thick that it was difficult to stumble from lamppost to lamppost.  Struggle we did, and slowly made it from building to building, praying for an open door that would take us in from the frigid night air.  Everyone dutifully carried bags of hope, filled with their food assignment; pickles, olives, salad, fruit, cheese, meat, even party hats, noisemakers, and tablecloth.

Alas, hope was dashed as each and every door was found locked and only darkness peered out through blackened windows into the darkness where we shivered.  As we numbly opened car doors to relinquish our food bags and admit defeat, we knew that Josh would stand sad and sullen-faced when the explanation was made that there would be no picnic for him this cold December night.

One last chance, one beacon of hope, one light in the darkness remained.  Perhaps we could sneak past the ushers, actors, and building maintenance crew and set up our picnic in the basement of Pioneer Theater. In we went, one-by-one, hauling our food assignments once again,  making no eye contact with anyone who might question us, to our secret destination.  Three ottomans sighted and drawn together made our place of celebration.

SUCCESS!  A PICNIC IN DECEMBER - AND HAPPY BIRTHDAY JOSH!

Kicking It Into Gear

The sound of slap-slap-clump-slap-slap-clump intensified as its source neared the feelin'-good-today runner.  A thought of pity crossed her mind and she realized by the sound of the approach, that her companion on this clear crisp morning must be somewhat handicapped.  She slowed to more closely listen and prepared for a fellow runner exchange of pleasantries.  The gait was loud and uneven, but approached surprisingly quickly.

An expression of bewilderment fell across her face when she realized that her comrade of fitness was none other than a black marshmallow with arms.  No face, no hands were visible on the 8-year-old child who had pulled them safely into his puffy parka warding off the icy air.  Slap-slap-clump-slap-slap-clump sliced the sounds of the quiet AM.  A bundle of buddies hunkered against a wind safe school wall, awaiting the arrival of their pal and the scheduled opening of the doors.

Two steps ahead of her his 40 pound backpack fell from its thigh-high perch to the ground. CLUMP!  In the instant that she thought that perhaps she should offer to help, the pack was swooped from the ground, returned to its perch, and resumed its clumping on the back of the black marshmallow child.  Small feet slap-slapped onward.

The feeling of perky fitness drained from her heart watching this young marshmallow child streak toward his destination, gleefully unaware of the anchor of textbooks strung to him.  She had been lapped.  Cognizant to the fact that she was at full throttle gave way to new inspiration.  "I must kick it into gear if I am to run like a 3rd grader."

Sweater Slam

With great care and pride, I manage my Christmas sweater inventory, never desiring to be an embarrassment to my offspring.  As a result, only two sweaters remain in my closet (see example #1 below).

A friend recently sent out an email request for an ugly Christmas sweater that she could borrow to attend a party mocking those who sport the hideous light-up versions.  Mentally, I noted that I would be unable to help her because my collection only contains tasteful pieces.

Feeling festive and rather stylish, I confidently browsed the aisles at Macy's, looking for fun Christmas jewelry to give as gifts at next year's tree day celebration.

When I happened upon the round display table of awful pins, I commented to a young clerk, "Wow, do you ever sell these ugly things?"


She replied, "Yes, I don't understand it, but we really sell a lot of them."

After I smugly raised my eyebrows, she added, "You could get one to go with your sweater."  Guess I should have loaned the sweater out.

Wisdom

funny flip-flopped folks

shedding shivering shadows

across arctic asphalt

knobby knees knocking

frigid fingers frozen

seek shelter shakily

chins crimping chestward

heads hunckered hopelessly

wondering where warming was

spiked shoes slip sliding

forcing feeble femurs

down desperately downward

frigid fannies fall

plummet pathetically

smacking, slamming, soilbound

wise winter warriors

amused among amateurs

see science in seasons

chuckling, calumphing

merry masked meanders

seen slit-sighted scarf squinting

head, hands, hearts, heated

when wisdom is working

frost flat-out forgives

pleasant participants

forward-forging forth from

enveloped environments

weathering winter

prompts practical planning

when warriors win wisdom

Pinky

Dear Mr. Pinky Toenail:

Are you kidding me?  Supposedly you serve a purpose, but I am perplexed by your minuscule existence upon my pinky toe.  

Are you offended by my neglect during clean-under-the-nail procedures?  Skipping you altogether causes no remorse on my part.  

Honestly, were you a mistake within the complexities of the human genome?  During copious clipping engagements you are left to your own ingenuity to later remain unsnagged upon my cashmere sock.

Do you feel that you are worthy of even the fumes that fill the room during a painting of your other piggie team members?  I think not, my friend, and I have taken to ignoring the 1/16th of a square inch that you occupy.

Consider yourself disowned, abandoned, warned, neglected, ignored.  You turn your petty little face arrogantly away from your fellow piggies totally ignoring the visual inspection of your conscientious tender.

I courageously hobble to stand and declare:

Expect nothing!

Unless.... you threaten, once again, to painfully abort yourself  from host piggy and embed yourself into the leg of that blasted high chair.

Ready to GO!!!!

7 a.m. and I am ready to go......anxious.....filled with hope.....glee....excitement.  There is a skiff-a-new on the lawn (not a little animal that hides in the bushes on cold mornings).  A bit of new snow send me to the ski closet to check my gear.  But first, I check the reports - 2 inches on a 24 inch  base - hmmm.  Then I check the mountain cams.  If there are 2 inches, then the 85 mph winds blew it all away - hmmm.  Then I check the ticket prices - $78 to ski rocks - hmmm.  Me thinketh not.

We shall go Christmas shopping for charity and make a gingerbread house :)

Just so Cute!

 Finn brings giggles and laughs to all.

His latest love is his animals and he carries
ALL OF THEM at ONCE.

It is quite a sight, him with the whole gang: hippo, pig, elmo, giraffe, dog.  None can be left behind as he totes the whole lot!

It warms this old granny's heart,

Mystery Injury

During the night, my finger was hurting.  Odd, but sleep sporadically prevailed until those early morning hours when the brain starts to kick in and the finger became more of a nuisance.

With a paper-cut ringman finger from yesterday, it was not until I realized that the pain was coming from longman, not ringman, that I became aware of a new injury.

Who gets a laceration at night?

Sure enough, upon examination, a bloody and lacerated longman was what had disturbed those precious nighttime hours.  Dear hubby said that I must have caught longman on the headboard during my nightly thrashing/tossing/turning approach to sleep.

Blogger tip:  DO NOT look for an image to post on your blog using the words "finger cut" before breakfast.  "Bandage" returns a much safer collection of pictures.