Wednesday, February 5, 2014

Snow Day! --A schedule of activities from my childhood

Create patterns in flesh from leaning against furnace vent

Try to comprehend adult situations in soap operas

Conduct experiments with static electricity using feet, carpet and older sibling

Perfect feat of traveling from living room to the kitchen without touching the floor

Sculpt dried out clumps of playdough into dried out clumps of playdough

Become "jinxed" into silence by older sister

Visit scary closet under basement stairs to retrieve ill-fitting snow boots that most certainly have spiders living in them

Wrap feet in bread bags to keep out the snow (and spiders!)

Go out and build a snow man

Fail to build snow man because snow is too dry and powdery

Settle for a snow angel

Wander aimlessly around the school yard in back of the house until the snow building up inside boots becomes unbearable

 Hook self on wire sticking out from one of the school yard snow fences

Run home crying


Monday, February 3, 2014

Winter Kicks My Ass Once Again

This is around the time when it always happens. When I realize it's no use, and I abandon all illusions, of getting through the winter, smelling like a rose. I smell nothing like a rose. I smell like old socks and the sweaty wool I've been wearing too long without washing, but can't bear to take off. Because I'm cold. I'm a little bit cold all the time. Except for the times when I'm very cold. Or exceptionally cold! The cold makes me lose all sensitivity to my appearance. I wear fowsy sweaters that have big pills, that are covered in lint. I wear a big robe that drags on the floor and acts as a big dust magnet. I let my facial hair grow. I wrap around me a long fusty coat that I might have peeled off a hobo. I wear the coat everywhere, I wear it to bed. I start small fires when my coat sleeves droop too near the stove burner. I eat total crap. Carbs, carbs, carbs, starches, STARCHES and fats. Fast as I see 'em, in my mouth they go. In my mouth they go. Fresh fruits and vegetables - NO. They are too watery and cold. Inside my gloves, my skin is cracked and dry. So dry it breaks off my hands like it was ice. My dry cracked skin is split and bleeding. And cracked. The cracks have cracks. Inside my house, I don't walk, I shuffle, underneath my dusty, hairy robe. I shuffle to the stove for another cup of tea, catching my robe sleeve on fire. In the evenings I can be found in a dark corner, nursing cracked hands, a huddled form rocking herself, over the furnace vent.