I got my snow day!

Well technically an ice day, but who cares! First off, let me begin by saying that yesterday I was still in a great deal of discomfort. Enough so that I took the heating pad in to work. And USED it. My boss was so shocked by my little display of weakness that she sent me home in the early afternoon, after having extracted a promise that if the roads were bad in the morning I would NOT risk further injury by tying to be brave and come in to the office. (Hee!)

So I did what any sensible person asshat would do. Went home and decided to bake the gingerbread dough chilling in the wine cooler downstairs refrigerator into appealing holiday cookies. To say this was not a good idea is an understatement. I’m pretty sure there is a baking god somewhere in this world, and when I find him? I’m going to kick his ass. I had tried a new recipe (Why? WHY?) and the dough was a disaster. Sticky beyond belief. I struggled for about twenty minutes before dumping the whole lot in the trash and making a new batch from the OLD recipe. By then the kitchen was an unmitigated disaster and I was in PAIN people! Then I took some advice from the Drawer Queen and made the Saint take me out to dinner. A few glasses of wine, a few hours with the heating pad and off I went into the arms of Morpheus.

And it turns out I CAN PREDICT THE FUCKING FUTURE PEOPLE!!! In the wee hours of the morning? The power went out! So my alarm did not go off! But the power came the fuck back on, so I had heat and lights and coffee when I finally got up! And I read the paper! In my PJ’s! And watched two episodes of “Project Runway”! And I had french bread with brie and a glass of wine for lunch! And then I finished a book! And now the Internets are back up and I can post about it! And now I’m tired and ready for a nap……

Dudes, my kids were right!

OK, I need for you to get a mental picture firmly in place. Are you ready? Seriously, close your eyes and concentrate. You know that look that teenagers get from time to time? The one where they look at you like you are the stupidest human being on the face of the earth? A complete and total moron? Yeah, THAT one. I personally have always felt it was undeserved. But guess what? They were right! I AM a moron. I managed to give myself whiplash getting the newspaper.

Seriously, I am in pain. Worse today than yesterday. I can't turn my head. Plus I pulled something in my right hip and so am seriously gimping along. I'm taking Aleve and using the heating pad. Which helps. But only for an hour or so. I seriously think I'm going to have to haul the heating pad to the office if I still feel like this tomorrow.

There is, however, good news. For weeks I have torn through closets trying to find my special Christmas shirt. This is what I wear to decorate, cook, or bake anything related to Christmas. I've had it probably eight years. It's lightweight and has a nice half zip at the top, lined with red corduroy. But I COULD NOT FIND IT. Now ordinary I would blame the children for having pilfered my closet yet again. Except in this case? I knew they'd rather die than be caught wearing this particular beauty of a clothing item. Ahem, so I mentioned to the Saint this week that I COULD NOT FIND IT ANYWHERE and guess what? He produced it in a matter of minutes!!

I know, you are all SUPER jealous right now. I can hear you thinking to yourselves, "If only I had Fannie's sense of style!" If Tim Gunn shows up on my doorstep I am so putting this on the "keep" rack, I don't care WHAT he says. Nothing says "Happy Holidays" quite like this shirt. Well except maybe this apron:

I want pictures of YOUR favorite holiday outfit!

Oh what a beautiful morning

Well my day is off to a spectacular start. I let the dog out, started a pot of coffee, and went out to get the paper. In my nightie and robe. My pea brain DID register wet pavement. But we had some snow two days ago. Snow melts. This phenomenon causes pavement to appear wet. When in fact night time temperatures have dipped and the perceived moisture is a thin coat of ice.

I'm sure it looked like a scene straight out of the "Three Stooges". Feet flying up in the air, arms waving wildly for non-existent support, the thud of one's bottom then head hitting the ground. Me laying there dazed and dizzy and trying to figure how in the hell I was going to get up. Good times!

Fortunately the Saint heard the girly shrieking thud and came to my rescue. I've had coffee and Alleve. I think I'll be OK. No doubt the bruise on my ass will be enormous, and my neck is feeling very stiff. But Paco is still shivering in the cold and those cookies are not going to bake themselves, so I shall press on. But I might need a Hot Toddy first!

Sing us a song, you're the Piano Man

OK, seriously. Billy Joel ROCKED! But I have to tell you the dude is OLD. When he first came on stage the Saint and I looked at each other like WTF? I mean we look exactly the same as we did when “Uptown Girl” was a hit song! So what the hell happened to him? (Oh yeah, I think he's a teenage daughter survivor - that could explain a thing or two) Then he looks out and says. “Hi, I’m Billy’s dad. Billy can’t make it tonight!” It was great! He threw in a few Christmas tunes and I got to sing “Angels We Have Heard On High” with Billy Joel! (Well, me and 1,000’s of my closest friends.) Much fun, but I will admit to moving slowly this morning and muttering under my breath “Dude, I am too old to go to concerts on school nights.”

The Other Daughters

It appears I have confused my legion of fans two readers with the sudden appearance of additional daughters. Their first names both happen to start with a “J”. I thought the clever use of "parenthesis" around their "names" would alleviate confusion. I was wrong. Anyhoo, I promised their stories, and so it shall be.

Each of my girls has a best friend; these girls are like sisters. I consider them part of the family. They feel the same. Precious Oldest met "Precious Eldest" in a computer class the summer before their Freshman year. It was BFFs at first sight. She is a few months older than Precious Oldest, so I'm calling her "Precious Eldest". We have known “Precious Middle” all of her life. She was Precious Youngest's first friend. (If you call babies playing on blankets next to each other friends.) She was born nine months before Precious Youngest, so I'm calling her “Precious Middle”.

They all attend(ed) the same Catholic high school. About a week before graduation, the Senior class has a retreat. Each parent writes a letter to their child and the child receives the letter(s) at the retreat. I wrote a letter to "Precious Eldest" too. I will do the same for "Precious Middle". Because I can not imagine our family without them.

They've eaten here, showered here, slept here, stayed up all damn night here, cried here, laughed here. They've spent countless days at the lake with us, gone on vacation with us, gone to church with us, gone to concerts with us. Through them I see my daughters with different eyes. And whoo boy, sometimes I need that.

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In other new, it snowed a bit here today so I "had to leave the office early because the roads are bad". This will not however, stop me from going to the Billy Joel concert with the Saint tonight! Wheee!

Oh Christmas Tree, Oh Christmas Tree

We went to get our Christmas Tree last night. I remember last year realizing that it was likely the last time Precious Oldest would be with us to celebrate that tradition. (In fact, I recall getting a bit misty!) So this year to fill the void we had "Precious Middle"* come for dinner and to help pick out the tree. She's come with us before; it felt right, less forlorn. (* Editor's Note -I will post soon about my other daughters, "Precious Middle" and "Precious Eldest")

We used to do the whole Christmas Tree farm, hay ride, cut down your own tree shebang. But when the Precious Daughters got to a certain point in school what with the recitals, choirs, programs, sports, homework, and a Partridge in a Pear Tree? We gave up that particular tradition. I mean really? Who has that kind of time? So for intervening ten or so years we have supported a local Boy Scout troop that runs a Christmas Tree lot as a fundraiser. (My grandfather was an Eagle Scout, my father is an Eagle Scout, my brothers are Eagle Scouts, I married an Eagle Scout - are you getting the picture?) We always get a Fraser Fir. It is always about the same size. I don't know if it is the species or the stellar quality of this particular tree lot, but the trunk is always straight and the branches nicely spaced.

With all this lead in I'm sure you're wondering what glorious thrills make up this tradition. Erm, well, there aren't any. The whole thing takes about three minutes. No, really, go ahead and time us. On very cold years, by the time the Saint finds us on the lot after parking the car (because girls are too delicate to walk very far in the cold – SNORT), we’ll have already picked out tree out and some hapless Scout will be dragging it to be trimmed and bagged. And we pride ourselves on our speed. As in we take note of the time as we leap from the car and try to beat last year's record.

The only real hemming and hawing comes in with the naming. (What? You don't name your Christmas Trees?) I'm not sure how this tradition got started, but the girls name the tree. Something Spanish; alternating male and female. (Don't look at me, I think they get this from their father!) This year Precious Oldest had to be consulted by phone. Much discussion ensued. The verdict was in before I had written the check: Paco. Lovely, no?

SIGH. So anyhoo, Paco is still outside soaking his newly shorn trunk in a bucket of water. Some night this week we will commence with the annual throw down putting the tree in the fucking stand; immediately followed by grounds for divorce stringing up the lights. Why do we do it? It's tradition damn it!

A Trail of Tears... and Towels

OK so not so much the Trail of Tears, as the trail of tears and towels. (And no, I am not making light of a sad chapter in our nation's history. In fact if you want some interesting reading I recommend 1,000 White Women by Jim Fergus. It is the fictional journal of a woman and her life among the Cheyenne Indians. I read it several years ago and COULD NOT PUT IT DOWN. ) But I digress.

OK remember the bathroom project? I'm attempting some finishing touches. Not artwork for god's sake - that will be forever and a day. Just a rug and some towels. For the time being it is not critical. It is after all Christmas and I have a .....well a..... sort of a ....problem. I decorate for Christmas. In every room.

But again, I digress. It is a small bathroom, so just a small rug. And some hand towels. How hard can that be? If you are me? VERY DAMN HARD! I started on Sunday at Kohl's. Moving merrily though "linens" I found some delightful Laura Ashley towels and a rug in "Patina"

But I thought it was too much a "blue" green. So I went to Macy's. And bought just a hand towel. In "Green Tea".

Piff. No good. Undaunted, back to Macy's after work on Monday to purchase every green towel that might be remotely acceptable. On the left is "Eucalyptus" and on the right, "Basil".

I liked "Eucalyptus" and " Basil". But I loved "Eucalyptus", so I got on line to place an order. Guess what? The rug? Only comes in "Ivy". Not "Eucalyptus", not "Basil", fucking "IVY". So today at lunch I ran out to Dillard's and brought home "Clove".

Not so much. So now I think I'm back to "Patina". No matter what I decide? Three days, five sets of towels, multiple merchandise returns to multiple stores. As the Saint would say, "Merry F%@#ing Christmas"!