Mississippi Ice

It's snowing outside. I mean, it's really snowing. For the second time in a month. I'm a little bit cranky about it, honestly. I want to get through this semester, by golly, and they've already added a make-up day and if it keeps going this way school won't be out til next August and then we'll start all over again.

Am I old? Does not wanting a snow day make me old and boring?

No, I say, no. These are the reasons I don't want a snow day: because I want Michael to make it here safely tomorrow. Because I want to leave for Spain on time in April, and missing school days could interfere. Because even though I love winter, the word and the season, I'm ready for spring this year weeks earlier than usual. I want to paint my toenails turquoise and wear yellow sandals. I want to go stretch out on warm white sand in North Florida. I want to gather a massive bouquet of daffodils and bury my face in the fresh golden smell. I want warm.

General Beauregard Lee, I just hope your little furry tail is right about an early spring. Else we's gonna get a groundhog stew goin.

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I never will get over falling snow, though. I stood in front of the window with baby S. in my arms, and we looked out at the fat falling flakes, and even as I sighed at the weather, I reveled in it. At the soft flakes, and the weight of the baby in my arms and his sweet warm baby smell, and all the soft silent white outside and the warmth of the quiet room. He was lovely and sweet and sleepy today, and I think I was more comforted to hold his tiny weight against me than he was to be held. And all was peaceful and he went to sleep while we stood watching the snow come down.

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In other news, did you know that Mozilla Firefox has REAL live baby FOX CUBS???? Which you can watch on a live webcam (I actually don't recommend this, the room is mint green and depressing, and you will be tempted to stage a rescue mission as Michael suggested).

Been hankering to watch Bambi lately. When my dad came back from a deer hunt when I was 3, I was terrified that he had shot Bambi. No, it was Bruno, my dad said. And I was like, "Whew! Okay good" and kept watching Land Before Time with a diapered Jim.

Over the Rhine NPR interview. Go listen! Now, slave. (Note: pay extra attention to the photo. I want to play in a field of six foot Queen Anne's lace).

Irish Postcolonial class = marvelous. It also makes me want to stuff myself with oatmeal cookies and speak in a fake Irish brogue all the time. I've managed to resist the latter (most of the time, at least).


Old dirt road
Knee deep snow
Watching the fire 
as we grow old
well I'm sold