I’ve never been more grateful to have been tucked up in my own bed (despite becoming rapidly untucked every 15 minutes owing to the norovirus) this past snow day throughout the Carolinas.
I'm Just Saying
I had one of those moments last week where a conservative, suburban mom popped right out of my mouth.
It was astonishing. And most disconcerting.
It was during our Saturday night tradition of watching our favorite recorded “Brit-coms” with a generous gin and tonic each that my phone rang and I made the motion to answer it.
“Why don’t you turn off the ringer?” Paul asked, slightly annoyed as he put ‘Doc Martin’ on pause.
Never before in all my born days have I been more grateful to be a middle-aged broad than this past week.
It was only a few summers (three?) ago that I ruined Paul’s well-deserved afternoon off by hauling him from the couch and requesting both his emotional and physical support in a spot of goose wrangling.
‘I wonder,” I thought, pulling myself out of the slop in front of the manure pile beautifully cloaked in the snow of a recent winter storm, “how long it would take for Paul to come looking for me if I had really hurt myself just then.”
Having finally put up the tree with Bing Crosby serenading me from the stereo and feeling all cozily tucked up on the couch with a cup of tea, I wanted to write you a nice, cuddly, Christmas column. I really did.
But somebody just fell through the floor of a trailer in Anderson and found a mummified body covered in cat litter, y’all.
Paul has given me an ultimatum, and I don’t like it. “Look,” he began last Saturday evening while I was kvetching (not bad for an Episcopal gal) over the lack of anything decent to watch on television, “If you would let me buy a flat screen, we could get Netflix On Demand.
Holy cow! What was that? Oh, that’s right: Thanksgiving. I nearly missed it drowned out by the Christmas music playing since Halloween and the bombardment of holiday commercials on television.
Standing behind the kitchen island as I added milk to a mug of hot tea yesterday evening, the soft autumnal light ebbing through the storm door caught my eye and, entranced by the canopy of stained glass that was being created through the leaves of the Carolina maples, I immediately began to search for a pen.