I remembered to charge my nice Canon camera that I haven’t used in a year, just for Christmas.
I only realized I forgot the SD card once I was already at my sisters house. I thought about going back but ain’t nobody got time for dat, so here’s some pictures from my iPhone that has a broken screen and a case that I’m pretty sure is growing mold in an attempt to slowly kill me.
Santa now comes with terms and conditions. Or he can’t spell. Either way, I cannot stop laughing.
All Saige wanted from Santa was a Panda, and she got one!
With all my baby girls. Aspen got a baby doll from Santa that is…um, anatomically correct.
Once all the gifts were open we went outside to play in the snow.
We ended the day with spontaneous hill sledding and I invited myself to stay over for Ashley’s dinner since she was making my ham recipe in my old crock pot and using my old cutting board, I figured it was only fair.
The only thing that could’ve been better (other than having an SD card) would have been having Sam and our parents there too, but overall it was a great Christmas. Hope you guys all had a great holiday too!
It’s Christmas Eve and I’m sitting at my desk eating an entire cheeseball for lunch with hand warmers tucked into the cups of my bra to keep me warm, which is probably the best life hack I’ve ever invented.
It’s not snowing here, and I wish it would. My absolute favorite part of winter is when the sky turns white and even when night falls and the temperature drops, the sky remains a brilliant crystal above you raining down snowflakes that catch in the glow of the streetlights, time immortalized, and the only marker of the passage of it is the puffs of air escaping your mouth and swirling up into the sky like dragons in the night.
I’m embarking on my second holiday alone. Ever since I was sixteen or so, there has been someone to buy for, to have snowball fights with, to hold hands and mugs of hot chocolate together as we walk around looking at the city lights.
The relationship before last ended abruptly just days before Christmas. And the next one started two weeks after that on New Years Eve after one too many glasses of champagne had loosened both of our inhibitions about each other. And even though the breadth of time between the two was short (too short, in hindsight), and even though neither turned out being anything more than a pile of ashes in my hands, there was still the emptiness of the holiday itself last year, the lack of presents tucked under the tree with his and her name tags on them, the anticipation watching them tear off the carefully folded paper and watching their expression light up.
I miss that. Probably more than anything, I miss the giving.
And I know in the grand scheme of life and the length of it – should I be so lucky to have a lengthy one – the few years that I’ve wasted on the wrong boys will make up for the moment when I find the right one, for when I’m able to tuck my feet underneath myself snuggling next to him on the couch and lean my head on his shoulder and give one of those involuntary sighs of contentment, because the song may be cliché, but baby all I want for Christmas?
There’s a lie I tell myself often.
“It will be better after.”
It’s an open ended phrase best suited for the end of relationships and the yearning for payday and the first few seasons of New Girl (although, the jury is still out on the New Girl thing but my friends tell me to keep the faith).
I found myself saying that mantra again on surgery day.
It will be better after.
But oh, how quickly I forget that the better only comes as hindsight, after you’ve suffered through the now.
I never really took stock and fully appreciated having two capable hands until I mangled one; and now I’m here after they removed the inflamed tissue and left me with a severed nerve and a numb palm wondering, did I just trade one ailment for another?
I have never in my life been more grateful to be a southpaw. Did you hear that left hand? I APPRECIATE YOU. Now don’t screw up like your counterpart. I’m counting on you.
It’ll be better after. With all things. After I massage the scar tissue. After I find “the one” (yet again, jury is out) and after I finish season 2 of New Girl.
Ever since I can remember my biggest fear – bar none – was living alone.
And up until last year, I never really had to. I was able to transition from my parents to my grandmother’s basement to marriage.
On my first venture into residing solo, I rented a creepy little house on a busy street in Provo. The rent was insane and the house was over 120 years old but they accepted my gigantic ass dog, which was important.
When asked how my first week was I responded, “I am pretty sure by now there are no ghosts. Just wolf spiders and hobos from the shady motel close by.”
But even with the abundance of eight legged creepy crawlies (not that I was shocked, once when I lived in Gram’s house a bat fell down the chimney and I’m pretty sure there’s still a video of it on my YouTube channel) and shitty heating and ugly yellow walls, living alone wasn’t so bad.
With the exception of the night that my Newfoundland stopped someone from breaking in.
That was rull scurry.
Oh and the fact that the guy who got arrested for showing me and my best friend his penis when we were 14 lived right behind me. Take note kids: if a dude pulls up, flashes you and asks you to come play with his peen? Don’t. Get his license plate number and call the cops instead.
Thanks to Timehop (the app we all love to hate), I was alerted that I moved into this house that I’m in now a year ago, the one that I bought all by my very self.
I’m happy to say there are significantly less spiders, hobos, flashers, attempted break-ins and ugly walls.