Snappy Holidays

Oh, devoted blog readers, friends and countrymen, have a great holiday wherever you may roam. My honey and I will soon be on the slopes of Tahoe, racing to the finish line (I'd put your money on me because I don't smoke).

I would not put your money on me at the blackjack table, however.

Hope all is merry and bright!

First Edition

For those of you undecided on stocking stuffers (my presents have all been wrapped for weeks), you can always buy the history of Bose McKinney & Evans. It's available in both hard cover and paperback online, and let me tell you, it's enthralling, because I wrote it, and it's about a law firm. I spent two years interviewing attorneys (attorneys and I, we have this thing) and...here it is. Learn about Unigov, The Duke Connection, school consolidations: it's all in here. While supplies last, it's the perfect gift for the holidays!

Fa la la la la la la la la.

Limpy

I’m having one of those “I need a vacation” days, full of consistent chaos. For starters, I’m walking around on a swollen big toe, and it’s Monday.

Thankfully, I’ll soon be embarking on a vacation, toe and all. Matt and I are going skiing next week with his family; ironically, as I gathered ski pants and mittens from high places around the apartment last night, I somehow managed to break a blood vessel in my big (now huge) toe. Yeah, that’s exactly one week before I’ll be riding the mountains. Egad.

I’m wearing my running shoes today (not with a skirt and pantyhose, like so many fashionably-challenged women do), and as I limped outside to start my vehicle this morning, I discovered that I’d left the dome light on and my battery was dead.

Matt said, “To the rescue!” but we couldn’t find his jumper cables (probably packed with my long underwear), so I called my old friends at AAA. Matt felt badly leaving me to fend for myself, but I’m a big girl, and a master at problem solving. Still, it’s nice being worried about, even if your mantra retains an “independent streak.”

My friend Darryn says, “You’re independent to a fault,” but is there such a thing? I have no desire to ever be tied to a railroad track waiting for someone to rescue me, and if my nail breaks it stays broken until it grows back.

I was raised to be independent and I very much like alone time. I grew up swimming until my hair turned green; taking all kinds of dance/gymnastic lessons; reading for hours on my bed; writing in journals; riding horses; taking long walks in the woods where I would 1). Hunt for mushrooms, or 2). Stare at trees; drowning Barbie in her pool (kidding, I never held her under that long); and I started making my own doctor's appointments circa 7th grade.

And what do I have to show for it? Apparently, a puffy, purple toe.

Happy Monday.

Horton Hears The Who

Gord e-mailed me today telling me that the Hip will be in Indy at the beginning of March…opening for the Who. Humbly, he asked if I’d like to be on the guest list. These guys are always first class, treating me as the VIP, and I cannot say enough great things about their friendship, their nurturing, their intellect.

I’d rather sit in a corner and drool on myself than watch television (although, I must say, we’ve become rather fond of occasional Everybody Loves Raymond repeats), and I’m constantly drawn to challenging brains. Feed me, make me work for it, make my heart flutter and ponder, alight with knowledge.

Even Matt, who reads (mostly contracts and business briefs, but reads he does) all day, comes home and browses my bookshelves for a lofty gem. I push Chabon; Steinbeck; Foer; Eugenides; Bellow. I too love nurturing, feeding the soul. Life is too short for sitcoms.

I’ve lately been wandering along the musical paths of My Morning Jacket (my brother’s friend, Carl, is a native-Indy boy and lead guitarist) and Ray Lamontagne, my head and heart tangled in analogy and foreboding of joy and despair.

Thank God I’m not a business person!

I visited my ninety-one-year-old grandmother recently, who had a pile of books sitting by her side. “I’ll read these this week—the library delivers as many as I can consume.”

Behold the power of genes.

I feel creative late at night when I’m just about to fall asleep. I nudge Matt and say, “They’re back – the thoughts are coming rapidly.” He says, “Get up! Write! Write them all down!”

I usually smile and fall asleep.

I’ve kept a journal since the 7th grade, and I’ve kept a notepad next to my bed for many moons. The coiling weave of thoughts - it hovers. I plait the sentences and the grammar falls into place.

And can you tell that I’m currently drinking Pinot Noir? It doesn’t hurt, either.

The Christmas spirit has hit. We’ve already watched the Grinch, Charlie Brown Christmas, and Matt watched Miracle on 34th Street with me the other night…for the first time ever. I witnessed a festive little tear in his eye when Natalie Wood discovered her new house.

Actually, Matt said, unimpressed, “That’s how it ends?”

Men.

We decorated our tree then lay partially beneath it (a Brooks’ tradition), quietly staring at the lights and listening to Vince Guaraldi.

No eggnog, yuck.

All this cheer is ostensible to realizing we no longer live close to much of anything, that our place is cold most of the time, and that we’re still in Indiana…for now.

Last night, around 9:30, I said, “I either want to take a bath or go to bed – they’re the only warm choices.”

He poured my water.