You were exquisite.

Would I have understood your splendor before?

You were so young when I left the hospital last, so young and eager to blaze new trails. We closed raw chapters together this year going through rest of Mom's things...going through the rest of mine. I said goodbye to a beloved pet and adopted another. I discovered a loving protectiveness for my father and a sweet gentleness in his weathered hands. My love for Nick grew as I freed my heart from the bonds of grudgery and found the courage to ask for help.

As I approach the second anniversary of Mom's death, I feel the sadness settling in. It will always be this way; I am not vacant. This year, the sadness does not suffocate.

Thank you, 2007, for kindness, love, ambition, and strength. You have healed me, and I can once again dream.

Sleep well.

We sent this picture with our Christmas cards. It seemed to be well received. I stopped by the grocery store yesterday to pick up more Fancy Feast for the fluffy one, and I did something I swore I'd never do—but this is me imbibed with the Christmas spirit and antidepressants! I bought several "feasts" for her that at one time seemed a bit extravagant, but I think that she should be able to eat white meat chicken and whipped egg soufflé with garden greens on Christmas, dang it!

It has been such a wonderful season for me. Yesterday, I was baking cookies for Dad with the amber glow of white Christmas lights and flickering candles while listening to Josh Groban singing "O Holy Night". It all just felt so right. I stopped by my aunts' yesterday while I was in the area and they gave me my present early (just in case the forecasted snow storm wreaks havoc on tomorrow's brunch date). They gave me the LOVELIEST piece of bakeware—ohmigosh I am so in love with it! It has the prettiest, most delicate floral-filigreed pattern with a rattan holder—it is like they saw the picture of what I wanted in my mind and found it!

Sophie ate the wrapping on her present this morning so we gave it to her early. She's been mostly good, though we've noticed that the tree now looks slightly slanted in its base. This can be mostly attributed to a good daily climbing from the feline that seems to be getting bigger and stronger every single day. So, the run-down: Christmas with Mom's family was last Sunday, Christmas with Mom's sisters is tomorrow at brunch if the weather holds out, Christmas with Dad's family is Monday for lunch, Christmas with Nick's family is Monday for dinner, and Christmas with Dad is Tuesday for lunch. When we went through the list of invites (of my family gatherings versus his), Nick exclaimed, "I'm getting screwed!"

Yes, well, that's the way that it is.

You all have a very Merry Christmas!

Saturday morning, I could barely conceal my glee—nix that. I didn't conceal it at all! We were going to cut down our own tree. I grew up with a real tree year after year, and the artificial sort just doesn't do it for me. We would always go after school the first Friday in December, my family and I. Charlie and I would be little Michelin Men in our snowsuits (we used to get much more snow way back when, our first snow fort dug out by Thanksgiving!) and the four of us would squeeze into the cab of Dad's old pickup truck. Mom would lead us in a round of Christmas jingles and we would take turns telling each other what we were most grateful for. Always, we said family.

The light would dim as we made our way to the tree farm of choice, and the four of us would pile out in the thick snow to look for the perfect tree. We always found it. Charlie and I would grab onto the tree as Dad carried it down to feel like we were helping and we watched in glassy-eyed awe as they secured it to the truck. By then it was dark and we were numb with cold. Gratefully, we crammed back into the cab of the truck with the heat blasting.

At home, Bing Crosby crooned as Mom warmed milk on the stove for hot chocolate with candy cane stir-sticks. I looked forward to it year after year. This year, I looked to reclaim that feeling of absolute wonderment and warmth. Nick and I traipsed out Saturday morning. Earlier in the week I exclaimed, "Oh no! I don't have winter boots!" Nick reminded me that there was no snow on the ground. Oh, yeah.



We weaved along the lines of spruces and I hopped sporadically, unable to contain the thrill. Just as we found THE ONE, the snow began to fall. I flopped my head back and stuck out my tongue, hoping to catch a flake. Back at home, I wish I had heeded my mother's advice that trees always look smaller in a forest than in a living room, as our tree exceeded the height of the ceiling by ten inches.

We set it up on Saturday, monitoring Sophie to see how destructive she was going to be. We left it undecorated that first day, hoping to ease her into the newness of it all. The lingering presence of evergreen was hypnotic and I was light in carefree in the memories of Christmases passed. Sophie was mostly good, but not so much that we didn't keep a spray bottle at hand's reach. Sunday, we decorated.

As was evidently clear during the initial phases of trimming, Sophie would be a holy terror with the decorations, the gold beading in particular. This in mind, we have a "mostly" decorated tree, the bottom void of anything that might tempt the cat to wreak havoc. As you can see from the picture, she's at the bottom waiting for a moment when nobody is watching to get into a little mischief.

I set up the nativity scene in made for my mother seventeen years ago, much to Nick's chagrin. (I am not sure where his dislike of nativity scenes stems, but I will have none of it.) Besides, mine is beautiful, if I do say so myself. Boughs adorn the stair railing and the large window, and we have received our first Christmas card. Saturday, we received up to a foot of accumulated snow and I am recording Nestor tonight on the Family Channel. I love the build-up—LOVE!

The blanket of snow glitters like diamonds in the morning sun, and our home carries the spicy aroma of Wednesday's Chex Mix and the more-subtle fragrance of sugar cookies. The golden rays of light streak through the windows and paint the side of my face in glorious heat.

I am alone this day. I feel the absurd need to smile. The biggest, brightest, face-cramping grin I can muster. It feels so good to feel so absolutely happy for no reason at all. I am not smiling because someone is watching, I am not smiling to convince anyone that I really am doing okay. Spooking Sophie who sits with eyes closed in a band of sunlight, I sing loudly and off-key, "IT'S THE MOST WONDERFUL TIIIIIIME!—OF THE YEAR!"

I yearn for the warm glow of white Christmas lights and the intermingling of scents of cinnamon and evergreen. I want to feel bundled up in my memories and my hopes, and I want to tell my loved ones how dear they are to me. Last year was a hard Christmas. It was my first without the woman who made them so precious to me.

Hot cocoa with candy canes, mulled apple cider with cinnamon sticks, dancing candle flames, Mannheim Steamroller, and It's a Wonderful Life. Champagne flutes with metallic ornaments in the hutch, twinkling boughs around the doorway, life bathed in a wash of amber light, warm fuzzy blankets, and stories of yore. This is the most wonderful time of the year, and this year I tend to do it justice.

Happy Holidays! Blessings to you and yours!

A fluffy gray kitty rests in my lap as I settle on the couch to drink my first cup of coffee. She looks up at me with half-closed eyes and begins to purr. "Oh, Sophie...this is the last morning like this for awhile." She continues to gaze at me lovingly, oblivious to the fact that I just dropped a bombshell. "Grandma Joan", as Nick calls her to Sophie, will stop by daily to offer her a little company and feed her the Fancy Feast she so dearly loves.

Tomorrow, I will begin my first real vacation in God knows how long. Around about April, we were out eating when Nick said, "I did something this week, and I've tried to keep it a secret, but I just can't." I waited for him to continue, wondering which direction that statement would go. "I bought airline tickets. I'm taking you to The Keys for your birthday."



My suitcase is mostly packed, but knowing myself as I do, I will most likely empty it tonight and then pack it all over again. My aunts gave me early birthday presents at work yesterday, and today is my last day at work. The last week has been a blur, and I have been stressed out with the [overwhelming] bevy of details...but as that fluffy gray kitty pounced on my belly early this morning, I woke up and looked to Nick (who had just stirred), whispering, "I'm excited."

Drinking coffee while looking at a Southern sunrise, running with the shoreline in view, a week sightseeing and exploring, celebrating number twenty-six in a most unforgettable way..."I'm excited," doesn't really do it justice.

A twelve-hour day...



Four hours traveling...

An hour unloading and loading...



An hour dropping off cars...



Six hours kayaking the Kickapoo...

Priceless.

Timeless.

Yesterday, deciding our vacation days were there to be used, Nick and I scheduled a day trip to Gurnee, IL—home of Six Flags Great America. I had never been to the park, never been on a roller coaster—I know you're giving me a funny look. Everybody gives me a funny look when I tell them that and see me as though I have been living in a hole all my life.

Truth is, I was simply brought up to appreciate a lot in a little and we never went out LOOKING for fun in my young life—because it could be found all around if we had the right perspective. My father wouldn't tolerate a whiner or a picky eater, so I'm pretty much as mellow as they come, and probably just as boring. Not that I think my father's strictness was bad parenting—quite the opposite. The children of today, given power to set the conditions of family life, seem so ungrateful and frivolous. And LOUD. Anyway, my view of where our future is headed tucked in its little handbasket is a different post for, perhaps, a different day.

We arrived before the park opened. Nick, a seasoned thrill seeker, had me good and stoked to enjoy. He packed a picnic lunch for us the day before, complete with fresh peaches, Fig Newtons, and the Pringles with the lowest fat content of any of them there—even though it probably took him twice as long to shop that way, he knows I am a stickler for reading labels and wanted my day to be the most wonderful that it could possibly be.

As soon as the gates opened, he grabbed my arm and high-tailed it to Superman:Ultimate Flight while he explained in detail, again how cool it was going to be, how there isn't any floor, how it feels like you're flying. I asked him, again, not to talk about it because I, an Earth being, rather liked floors and knew that this bod wasn't equipped to fly. Waiting briefly in line, he wanted to document that, indeed, I was tall enough to ride. Even if only just.



I watched from my place in the line as those before me were strapped in, as others returned with sparkley eyes and unabated laughter and took a deep breath when our turn came. This was my first thrill ride ever (What? You mean the swings don't count!?), and I was duly nervous. I think I left my stomach there at the start only to pick it up again after the ride had finished, but no matter which way I alter the memory in my mind, I am pretty sure this picture tells it best:



To sum it up in one word? FUN.

And then it was on to this one—the Batman ride was a lot like the first for me, and I dropped my stomach off at the same spot as last time, only to collect it at the end, and I followed a whooping Nick on wobbly legs. I was having fun, but this was all very new to me. And then, we came to a ride that I didn't get a good enough look at before I marched up the platform to join the queue.



WOOSH

The deafening sound of speed was punctuated regularly by screams and my heart started flopping around in my chest in a desperate plea to escape my body before I was stupid enough to board. Vertical Velocity was pure evil. I tugged his hand over the racket and told Nick with a trembling lower lip that I was going to sit this one out, that I didn't think I could do this one. He looked down at me, crestfallen, and reassured, "Dear, it's safe!" I shook my head. Didn't wanna do it. Too scary. Couldn't breath. Going to throw up. And, wow! I haven't had an anxiety attack since Mom died! But, there you have it!

With my mind engaged in freaking out as it was, I am sure it was easy directing my body to the open seat...and when it hit home where I was, I tried not to cry.

WOOSH

It was friggin' awesome.

And I think it made Nick's day that I did not, in fact, keel over.

We went on many others...American Eagle, Demon, Giant Drop, Raging Bull, and Viper...descriptions can be found here. I tolerated them all considerably well, having already watched this other one and determining that I would not be going on that ride. No way. Uh uh.

And then I found myself in a confusing place, a place wherein I knew I wanted to be able to say the I rode them all, but yet, I so enjoyed having four functioning limbs...and you know, life. The line was long enough that we joined in at the end, and I figured I'd have plenty of time to turn back.

But the longer I stood there, the more it felt as though the contract had been signed, and I would feel like a coward if I backed out. Over and over again I heard the execution of Déjà Vu, the screams, the air slicing sound of intensity and I felt my heart threaten to walk out on me again. "No way!—I didn't sign up for this," it practically spat.

We got there. I bit my tongue and said nothing as we boarded. The ride began and lifted us almost 180 feet into the hair, so that my body was pointed to the ground and the harness was the only thing keeping me from Death...and then there was a pause. I whimpered and felt the tears burning at the back of my throat.

And then we descended. Slowly. They had us all get off so that they could do a safety check and I looked at Nick once we were safely behind the gates again and he knew that this was me at the verge of a meltdown. He hugged me and rubbed my back while I stood rocking, mute and trembly. "If they don't fix it in 5 minutes, we'll go," he decided aloud. I prayed for a 6 minute turn-around time.

It was not to be, and we marched out to the ride once more, his hand gripping mine tightly, and I tried to suck it in to get my seat fastened even tighter, but no matter what I did, that hip bone wouldn't move. Nick still had a grip on my hand, and he kept telling me to close my eyes if I needed to...and then we rose again, hitting the highest peak and then what felt like a free fall. I screamed, I couldn't help it.



And then we hit the curve at the bottom, spinning up and around and around and it was pure glee. All at once the silliness of my fear hit me, and I spent the remainder of the ride laughing maniacally, giving Austin Powers' Dr. Evil a run for his money. The ride over, I was still laughing in an almost disturbing timbre while I unstrapped myself and followed a leaping Nick down the ramp. Nick likes to push me—which is good for me, good for anybody—but I think I scared him not once, but TWICE today that he had pushed too hard, and he was beyond relief that even though I was in mirthful hysterics at his heel, I was no longer two steps away from the other extreme.

We got to the landing and he grabbed my hand and hugged me, asking what I wanted to do now seeing as how we had hit all of the thrill rides. Sobering up, I looked at him directly and stated, "Beer."

So, Saturday, we had this thing. It's this monstrous fireworks display set to music and this is my second year seeing it live—I can pretty much say that it ruins you for all other fireworks displays.

Warner Park is alive with activity the entire day though, chock full with rides, concessions stands, souvenir peddlers and clowns making somewhat obscene (to the dirty minded, perhaps—but elephant face my tuckas!) balloon objects for the wee ones. But, what I had been most excited to see, and have been twitching about for well over two months, is the WOLX (local oldies radio station) stage at 2:00 p.m.



With John Lennon dying shortly after I was conceived, my chances of ever seeing the Beatles live were nonexistent at best. But as we paid the entrance fee, had our hands stamped, our right-to-drink-adult-beverages bands secured, and I heard the telltale opening to "A Hard Day's Night", my knees buckled. Tribute band or not, they looked and sounded like the real thing.



The show started with the early 60's lineup, matching crisp suits, mop-top haircuts, and banter with dead-on accents and voice timbres from every audio clip I have ever had the pleasure of hearing. They had us all stand up (we had to find a place to put our beer) when they sang "Twist and Shout" at the end of the first of three segments of the show. Nick seemed surprised that I jumped up so willingly—I'm not much fond of dancing—and I told him that I learned how to Twist straight from Chubby Checker when he appeared on a talk show some ten years ago. He said the Twist is done by pretending that you're simultaneously drying your bum with a towel after a shower and putting out a cigarette with your foot.

Okay, how many of you just stood up and tried?



And then they got all psychedelic on me and I sang my voice raw, being an even bigger fan of the latter half of their career than the first. I sent Nick on the photo quests, it being his camera and all, while I held back to babysit the beverages. I didn't know that there were three parts to the show, and when they left the stage in their Sgt Pepper garb, I think I actually pouted, "It's not over, is it?"

But then "George" came out in his gravedigger gear, singing "Something" and I pepper Nick with all sorts of Beatles trivia—I go on and on about the "Paul is Dead" theory and how the Beatles perpetuated the absurd notion, the double meaning of the Abbey Road Album Art—they're walking away from a cemetery and John is dressed in all white (the Preacher), Ringo is dressed in nondescript black (the Undertaker), Paul is in a respectable suit and barefoot (the Dead Guy), and George is dressed head-to-toe in okay-to-get-dirty denim (the Gravedigger). Also on the Sgt Pepper Album, it looks like they're all standing around a fresh grave site covered in flowers with a left-handed bass—the instrument Mr. McCartney played—that also can be rotated to look like a "P" (for Paul). Those Beatles...I love how they messed with gullible minds!



And then the rest of them came out and being able to participate in the vocal riff of "Hey Jude" was easily one of the highlights of my life. My face ached from constant glee and my hands were numb from applause when they announced that American English would be available to meet and greet momentarily. Nick took a self-portrait of the two of us to commemorate:



I was humored in looking at this photo full size the next day. I had congratulated Nick on the shot in the preview-viewing on the camera screen because I didn't think it looked completely obvious that it was taken by one of us. Then I zoomed in on the reflection in my sunglasses.





"George" told me a couple times that I had a nice smile. Some radio station with a camera and a mic asked me if I enjoyed the show. When I replied that I did, they'd ask me if I'd sleep with the band members. I replied honestly that I couldn't really say with my boyfriend standing right next to me.

It came!—Oh, did I forget to mention? I bought a kayak! I've been putting off the purchase because, well, they're not cheap...but I decided that I was going to enjoy this Summer a whole lot more than I enjoyed last Summer—and also, that I was going to keep my butt out of the hospital this time around.

I poured over reviews, specs, and finally decided to buy with the problem-area in mind. I found a kayak that allows for several different leg positions with the bigger cockpit and side pads so that I can keep shifting, adjusting the pressure on the high maintenance (and costly) derrière. This is nothing new—I've never in my entire life found sitting for long periods comfortable...who knew it was to blame on a tumor and lacking coccyx!?

At twelve feet, it's not so short to be an absolute nightmare on choppier waters (but short enough that it's still pretty maneuverable for someone with a shorter arm span), and has excellent ratings on stability and tracking. It came last Friday, and I was well pleased to return from my father's to find it sitting sweetly atop Nick's SUV. I jumped from my car and cried loudly, embarrassingly, "I HAVE A KAYAK!" Nick came out, inquiring whether or not I was drunk.



The next day, both kayaks were loaded on the SUV and we headed to Mirror lake to paddle the waters there. After four or five hours, we bobbed just off from where we put-in and clutched onto each other's boat to stay close and not drift away. It was so lovely just then, feeling the fatigue in my muscles and the heat of the sun—I am very happy with my choice of kayaks.

At one point, however, I called up to Nick, "Yours is still faster!"

He called back, "It's called arm strength."




Oh, and Nick wants me to publish that last night, at his birthday dinner, I ate steak. And liked it.