Things What I Miss

Continuing in the same vein of winter hatred/impending cabin fever madness (or as the husband calls it, "hibernation sickness") I'd like to present you with a list. A list of things that I miss, haven't done for months, and am nearly positive I'll never get to do again. Feel free to add items.

1-Bracelets (currently covered up by layers and layers of long sleeves and coats)

2-Dangle Earrings (currently get snagged on thick winter scarves or hidden by sweaters with turtlenecks)

3-Necklaces (currently get covered up by layers and layers of shirts, scarves and coats)

4-Dresses (currently have to wear long sleeves with them which covers up a lot of the pretty bits, can only currently wear thick/warm dresses which don't exist and have to wear tights with them which is limiting)

5-Sandals (currently must wear two layers of socks and clunky practical man boots)

6-Peep Toed Shoes (see above and add to that the distress of finding at least two great pairs of said shoes at the END of last season!)

7-Eating Outside (currently can't think too much about this or might go insane from longing)

8-Cold Beverages (Currently must imbibe warm beverages or room temperature at least. Remember the clinking of ice in a glass and the refreshing feeling. Think it will be never before I get to enjoy this again)

Old Man Winter

I can't decide if Old Man Winter is old because he's going to die soon or if he's old because he is cranky and spies on his neighbors. Either way he is breaking me, mind, body and spirit. How is it that this winter has lasted for two years? I swear it's been two years. The voices in my head tell me so.

Usually, I'm down with winter. Me and winter usually get along like gangbusters. Not so much this year. This year I want winter to die a very, very painful death. It seems like it started in about April of 2009 and hasn't stopped yet. Right now, there is a blizzard happening. An inch per hour for ten hours. This is like pouring bleach and salt and acid into the open gaping wound. Of a baby. That is what winter is doing to us. It's just so wrong that it's evil.

This is the first time on record that I want summer. Not even spring. Summer. I want 80 degrees and I've never wanted that in my whole time on this earth. I want a bathing suit, a swim up bar and about nine or ten fruity alcohol laced drinks. And the sun, oh mother I want the sunshine! The tropical paradise that I've been living in, inside of my head is getting alarmingly realistic. If winter doesn't quit it, I may be trapped there permanently.

I wish there was a restaurant in Rochester that had a tropical theme. With palm trees and they would crank the heat up to sweltering and you could go there to get ice cold drinks and fruit and ice cream and warmth! Warmth would be on the menu. It would be #1. I'll have the #1 please: Warmth with a side of fruit.

My hands are chapped, my lips are chapped, I can't even admit to places where I have chapping! Can I just tell you how sick I am of wearing layers? Ninety layers? Just to keep myself alive? Just to keep my fingers working on this keyboard? I'm sick to death of going around like Randy from A Christmas Story. "Put your arms down when you get to school." That's me, marshmallow woman.

Sometimes I think that the White Witch has us in her grip. Is it bound to be winter forever and never Christmas? I think maybe. I'll tell you what. If I could find Old Man Winter I'd kick him in the junk.

Cobbled

You might remember the boots from this post. I loved them right from the start and have worn them faithfully. Over the months some tragic things befell my beloved $4 boots.

Firstly, I fell down HB's back steps of death on Halloween night during the only five minutes it was sleeting. It's actually the only time I remember falling down, without catching myself before I was on the ground. Falling down steps is frightening. And it resulted in the front of both boots getting scraped. I bought a little shoe polish and fixed things up and kept wearing the boots about once a week.

Then, the unthinkable occurred. A huge crack, right across one of the soles. Super glue? No, not going to work. I could not wrap my mind around letting my $4 real Spanish leather boots go. I felt like the father from A Christmas Story when he is holding the broken pieces of his Major Award. I needed a shoe guy...a you know, what are they called? I needed an elf! No, no. I needed...a cobbler!

Then I remembered that there was a shoe repair shop right next to my gym. I brought my boots in, cradling them like an injured puppy. The shop was small, but I loved it instantly. There were home made wooden shelves lining the walls behind the small counter. They had no doubt been made and painted a cool mint green in the 50's. The shelves corralled a curious display of shoes. Other people's shoes. The cobbler was working in the back when I walked in, giving me a few moments to spy on the shoes and imagine what type of people brought them in. They each were fitted with a paper tag. There was something inspiring and magical about those rows of other people's shoes. Shoes that people love enough to take to the shoe doctor.

The cobbler came to the counter wearing a much used apron and a mustache. He bobbed his head to me and I explained my case. I know I was looking too concerned over a pair of boots. He took them gently and then proceeded to lean into the broken sole, really opening the gap up. I gasped. He smiled a quiet smile and never looked up at me from the patient. He said, "I think I can put half soles on them and new heel tips." I wasn't sure what that meant, but I was good with it. Now for the rub. How much? $30. Since I had only paid $4 for the shoes, I thought I could handle it. I shelled out the dough and he said in a quiet voice, "These are nice boots. I'll clean them up for you too."

I picked the boots up the next Saturday. He had them for one week because I couldn't get there before then. I walked in hesitantly, not knowing what had become of my boots. The cobbler looked through the shelves to find my boots and brought them to me. They were...stunning. Shiny bright! Like new! I could only goggle at them. He flipped them over so that I could see the half soles. He put new soles on my boots. With grip. And new heel tips. It was almost overwhelming, the change that had come over my $4 boots. If the counter hadn't been in the way I would have hugged that man. He seemed proud of his work in a modest craftsman like way. I thanked him profusely.

I wear these boots all the time. In the winter weather, in the rain, in the...office. The grip on the bottom actually makes them one of my least slippy pairs of shoes in the snow. And they have high heels, people! Needless to say, I want to recommend this cobbler to you. Incidentally, I don't know if he qualifies as a cobbler since he doesn't make shoes, just fixes them. Ah, well. Anyway, behold! New treads and heels!

No, my left ankle is not broken. It's hard to take a picture of your own legs at this angle, ok?

Winging with Wine

Buckle up, this is a long one. Also, unfortunately (or fortunately, depending on your point of view) we do not have pictures of this event. So, I will illustrate. Lucky you.

So, as you may or may not know, I am a horrible flyer. I dislike even thinking about being on an airplane. I loathe actually being on an airplane and I wet my pants in flight. I also claw the arm off of anyone sitting near me because of my great, great fear. I’m sure that my picture and description are on a website somewhere warning people that if they are seated next to me on a plane they should ask to be moved. Immediately.

About six months to a year before actually getting on a plane I start having stress dreams. Last time the husband and I flew I was such a mess that I transferred my anxiety straight into him via small flesh wounds in his arms made with my hands which had transfigured into beastlike talons. He couldn't calm down the whole trip whereas, as soon as we touched down I was right as rain, happy as a clam. Poor kid.

So a plan was devised for this most recent trip. I would go to the doctors, get a prescription for something very strong and be unconscious by take off. A good time would be had by all. When we made this decision my stress dreams changed from being on a plane to forgetting my medicine and being on a plane. Adorable.

So get the meds - Valium. Just a few pills for the way down a few for the way back. The doc tells me not to mix it with alcohol or I "will not like the results". I don't ask why. She tells me to be careful with the pills since I'm a small person. One pill should do me just fine. I'll be asleep for 4-10 hours. The husband starts worrying about dragging a limp body off of the plane.

I am calm the entire day, putting all my trust in chemistry. I don't worry because I know that I'll be asleep before take off. Glee! I take the pill one half hour before getting on the plane, as instructed. I walk on the plane, feeling too normal. I start to worry. This is not good. I had forgotten how small planes are! My claustrophobia sets in as I scrunch by already small body into a coffin like seat between the husband and my friend HB. They both look worried. The medicine hasn't kicked in. Which one of them is going to sacrifice their arm to the claw beast? I close my eyes and tilt my head up so that I'm breathing in the cold air from the spigot above on the ceiling button console. I try to relax, try to feel myself getting sleepy, falling asleep. Nothing.

I coach the husband and HB to hold tightly to my wrists as we take off. It is at this point that I realize our pilot must be (enter name of Nascar driver here). He goes 1,000 miles per hour and angles up at about 90 degrees. I'm fairly certain I'm going to die. My butt hurts from clenching. Sleep is nowhere in sight. I can't even have any alcohol for fear that I "wont like the results". I try to relax. It does no good. About an hour in I say I'd like another pill. The husband doesn't think it's a good idea. HB says to do it. She isn't scared of dragging a lifeless body off of a plane. I compromise and take a half. It does nothing.

About an hour before we land I've had it. I can't control myself any longer. I'm about to start climbing over the seats and screeching like an owl. I look at the husband with wild eyes. "I need something", I say. He looks like he's going to start rocking back and forth while singing twinkle twinkle little star. I look at the laptop that he's watching a movie on. "I need that. I need the internet." He promptly pays the $10 for an hour of internet without hesitation, bless him. It wasn't the greatest, but it got me through.

Now, on the way home I devised a plan: Alcohol. Lots of it. The flight back was at 3:00 pm. I started a regimen of drinks at 8. I was happily slurring over my Mikey Mouse shaped pancakes. After breakfast we watched some Sesame Street in our room. I was drinking red wine out of a soda cup with a straw. It was the husband's job to keep me awake. If I could just maintain a nice level of drink induced happiness and not fall asleep I'd be able to fall asleep immediately on the plane. He failed. He fell asleep, and then what's a girl to do? So, I had to start all over.

The only thing was that we had to get on the bus to the airport at 11. We didn't make it to the airport and through the line until 2:00 pm. I ran to the bar. I never run, I hate running. My body isn't shaped for running. But I did, because that's commitment. Hurriedly I gulped down a glass of red wine, a long island iced tea and another glass of red wine. We boarded the plane at about 2:45. I was feeling pretty good about the whole thing. I was fairly sleepy, but before closing my eyes I was able to ask Nick to get me some wine when the cart came around. I then added that "I'd never forgive" him if he didn't. That was the liquor talking. I think.

At any rate the ride home was fantastic. I spent most of it asleep, a bit of time talking endlessly to HB about who knows what, and some of it looking out the window. Without peeing my pants! I was more or less awake for both landing and take off and was fine during both. I bought a bottle of red wine when I got home and every time I taste it I think about the airplane. In a good way! Let me recommend this course of action to anyone who hates to fly! It's amazing and getting sloshed is the best thing you could do for yourself. Ever.