Winter Changes

Welcome back, everyone!

Modeling Scott's (literal) birthday suit

...And welcome home to me! After three months of travel, Mr. Yates and I are finally back from our first major jaunt together across the country - no small feat! After flying from California (where it finally stopped raining) back to the Frozen Northlands (where it hasn't stopped snowing), we're enjoying some quiet catch-up time with the godkids & company, as I've christened our adopted clan.
Today was a good day for it, too. It was so cold - 24 degrees below zero - that the girls had the day off from school because the school buses couldn't start. Seriously. Needless to say, they were completely heart-broken. :) As for me, I experienced not a one of the usual Vermont urges to put off my writing and go outside to play, and so was remarkably productive. In fact, the only procrastinating I did was to avoid going outside, where we have yet to finish pushing my car out of the snow-bank it was buried in. I didn't mind the wait. It's already taken us two days just to dig a path for it, and I'd rather be covered in kids than ice.

Speaking of the not-so-wee ones, today's gem of a kid comment came from Ms. S, who was listening to one of her sisters and their other nanny talking about foreign phrases they enjoy.
"Ooh, schadenfreude," suggested the nanny. "One of my favorite German words!"
"That's German?" Ms. S wrinkled her nose.
"Sure it is!" Her sister was all too pleased to explain. "It means taking pleasure from someone else's pain."
"I'll have to remember that," murmered Ms. S thoughtfully, and turned away. As she walked by, I heard her repeating her new phrase softly to herself:
"Shot in Florida, Shot in Florida, Shot in Florida..."

This one almost tops one of her younger sister's comments the other day while actually in Florida, where she was vacationing with her moms.
"Why is the water so much warmer here than it is up North?" quizzed her mom, who never misses an opportunity for homeschooling. "They're both part of the Atlantic."
"Mo-om," replied Madame H incredulously, in that particular way she has. "We learned this already. It's because it's closer to Ecuador. Duhh!"
While technically right...

In other (less hilarious) news, I've finally come up with my New Year's resolutions: enroll in aromatherapy school (and thus, stay in one place long enough to help the kids and plants grow), pay off some debts, and actually use some of those products I'm always giving away and selling - now that's a novel idea, huh? Physician, heal thyself (or at least pamper the bejeezus out of thy skin)!

Speaking of herbs, the blog is finally back in action with a few new pages (hooray!), and I'd love any feedback on the new layout. Okee-dokie, pokies - time for this blackbird's daughter to hit the nest. 

Sweet dreams,

Jessica

Familial Oddities (where do You go when you...well, whatever?)

So I'm making a faux-nouveau version of my Grandma Ruth's familially famous chopped liver, playing around with an extra hard-boiled egg here, some sauteed pecans there, when I happen to look at the windowsill above the kitchen sink. Semi-hidden among the potted plants and glass tchotchkes and the little round top piece to the pressure cooker is...

"A pet cemetery for cat whiskers?"

My mother startles out of her anti-dumb-American-actors conversation and looks momentarily chagrined before doubling over in laughter.

"Mom?" I ask. "Is this you?" She's laughing so hard she can't talk. My father watches us, bemused. I look back at the window ledge, just to make sure I haven't imagined it. Sure enough, on the far side of a small, potted succulent, a miniature modern art installation rises out of the soil at haphazard angles. There are six whiskers in all; all white, all different sizes. My mother is still laughing.

"You're the first one to notice," she gasps, and for some reason, the idea of my father and brother standing inches away from the little cat shrine/totem/hidden message every day as they wash their dishes or walk to the bathroom is too much. I slide down the counter, hysterical, and sit on the kitchen floor, hooting with laughter.

"How long have you been doing this?" I ask her, when I finally get my breath back.

"I don't know," she shrugs, and cocks her head to the side.

"I guess it is kind of macabre. But they're body parts. I couldn't just throw them away." She pauses reflectively, then shrugs again.

"Besides, as far as strange personal habits, this one isn't so bad. I hear someone on your dad's side used to keep a jar of toenail clippings."

I stare at her, aghast.

"Toenail clippings?" I ask.

"Uh-huh." She nods. There's a pause.

"I'm blogging this," I announce.

It's a strange house. My brother psychoanalyzes the cats (depressed and anti-social), and my father plays the baffled pater familias with disturbing accuracy. And none of us can make it through a simple conversation without breaking into song. Right now, Evan is singing "Hurts So Good" under his breath.

"Why are you singing that?" I ask.

"Because," he replies, totally serious and without a moment's hesitation, "The ginger ale I just drank burned my throat when I swallowed, but it tasted so good. It was pretty apt, actually."

He pauses. "I didn't even know I was singing."