Skin

Tomorrow we celebrate the first day of spring. Tonight I have a house full of 10-yr-old-ish girls...because in 2001, with the first day of spring came the birth of my first baby girl. My best friend and I chaperoned this horde of estrogen to the local indoor pool this afternoon, and in looking around at the other patrons for two hours, I couldn't help make the observation that nobody looks attractive poolside...in March...in Vermont. Not even the "beautiful people" (as my dad calls them) can find favor in a bathing suit...what with nothing but blues, greens, and whites of the room casting their sallow glow upon all that pasty, waterlogged skin. And pasty, waterlogged, hairy man skin is even worse. Oh, and then add jiggling cellulite and/or wrinkly folds...Acne in odd places...Snotty nostrils...Calloused winter unpedicured feet. Hm?...What? Oh, you're eating. Sorry. Hey, you've got some popcorn in your teeth there. Anyway...I chose not to be part of the scantily clad today. And I think I heard a gentle whisper of Thank You from the Universe.

While we're on the topic of the cutaneous, there's a question I've been pondering for a few weeks now. And let me preface (for those of you who don't know me or my usual attire well) by saying that I've been working at home for 9+ years (since that spring bairn was just a wee 7 months old), so I've been out of the mainstream dress-clothes loop. I've been obliviously wiling away the days at my desk, headphones in place; clad in boxers, sweats, hoodies, jeans...and yes, oftentimes unshowered and braless. Don't judge me. You're just jealous. My life is grand, after all.

I digress. My question is (drum roll)...Do people still wear NYLONS? And by people I don't mean grannies in church with their favorite reinforced-toe nudes bunched around their kankles. I'm talking 30-something stylish work-a-day women who just might watch What Not to Wear faithfully. I just can't imagine putting on a thin layer of tan-colored fake skin, as it were, for the sole purpose of trying to convince the world that you're tan, when you and said world clearly know you are not. Aren't nylons really just the original spray-on-tan? And aren't spray-on-tans the tackiest thing next to...oh, I don't know...toupees? Should I find some matching arm nylons? What about my neck?

Tights are ok...at least they provide warmth. Stockings with garters...they serve their purpose, if ya know what I mean. But nylons, dear nylons...so lame. But again, feedback for the out-of-the-looped...please...just in case I have to wander out into the world anytime soon.

As I type this there are half a dozen prepubescent girls banging on the window behind me, out there in the chilly dark of night, with that super-big, once-every-20-years (or whatever) moon as their backdrop, faces alight by flashlights, moaning and giggling, faces painted zombie style (beauty make-over sleepovers are so last season, apparently...but you may want to check in with Stacy and Clinton on that).

I have two new pairs of sandals waiting patiently in their boxes in my bedroom. My ungues are freshly painted Frosted Fuchsia. And so I'll leave you with a wish for a Happy Spring Equinox. And a Happy Start of Skin Season (I've officially banned pullover sweaters and dress boots...the mud boots won't be leaving my side til the sap stops running). And since we're just days out from St. Patty's Day, I'll throw in an Irish blessing as well (even though I may be more -ish than Ir-): May you and these beautiful girls enjoy flawless skin and countless more moon-filled evenings full of laughter and friendship. Happy birthday, my sweet Keegan, my "little fiery one."

The Goo of It

It's January, colder than a witch's *%#!* outside. There's snow on my deck, more to come. The Christmas paraphernalia is gathered in the middle of the living room waiting patiently to be hauled downstairs when I get a whim. And I can't stop thinking about s'mores - the crowned jewel of August campfire fare. I'm not even a fan. I enjoy most of the components, but not necessarily together (much like a BLT...only BLTs are completely inedible). The grahams are crisp and dry (or oftentimes stale, the summertime box residing in the pantry a month between trips to camp), the marshmallow charred and sticky, and the chocolate hard and cold because you just can't let the whole concoction sit long enough for it to soften due to its messy nature. I hate a food that I have to gobble down in three seconds simply because if I don't its ooze will encompass my hand or skid down the front of my shirt. I like to linger. I'm a lingerer-er-er.

For friends that came to our New Year's Eve bonfire last weekend, I made a s'more pizza pie. Pizza crust topped with some of that schmancy white and dark chocolate peanut butter, mini marshmallows, and chocolate chips...then baked to perfection. I think it could be improved upon, but it managed to disappear into the mouths of the seven dreamy-eyed children (and some wine-eyed adults as well).

I once accidentally sent a fiery ball of mallow flying onto my husband's jean-clad leg up in Pittsburg, NH. He had to put out the fire with his bare hand. He wasn't pleased. He's still not pleased, some thirteen or so years later. But it's hilarious to this day. Jess and Steve (my BFF and her hubby) will back me up on that. They gave us a s'more Christmas ornament that year, so we wouldn't forget (we wouldn't). They'll also tell you my husband sounds like a wild gobbler when he's vomiting (repeatedly) lakeside in the middle of the Vermont woods. That earned an ornament too (Jess, she's a crafty one). Ah, good times...

Jess and Steve didn't make it to the bonfire last Friday. They celebrated in a hospital room instead, nursing Steve's broken hip and forced to ponder the possible cause, hoping it was no more than coincidence and an icy patch. Sometimes life just craps in your party hat and hocks a loogie in your kazoo.

I hate it when someone you love so much is the one to give you perspective, to make your own daily trials seem trivial. That job should be strictly held by strangers on the evening news or friends of friends of friends...the victims of fires and floods and tragic accidents. Because when its somebody close, you don't care about the perspective...you just get worried, you get angry, and you get remorseful. Remorseful because maybe you haven't seen that antagonistic, funny, sweet, stocky, red-headed guy in a year. A whole year?! Is that possible!? Yeah, it's possible, because you also went 6 whole months without seeing his wife, your best friend, when they only live an hour away. Pardon my French, but if there were ever a need for a "WTF!?" it's when you realize THAT.

But out of the worry, the sadness, the anger, and the remorse, grows a determination...to help where you can, even if it's just a daily e-mail of encouragement, a (heaven forbid) phone call, a dinner delivery now and then, some dirty dishes scrubbed...to let them know you care and that you'd turn the world over and make it all good again if it was within your power.

And so, this year, my #1 new year's resolution is not to a have a trimmer waistline or be in less debt (those'll run a close 2nd and 3rd, of course)...but to spend time with those that matter most to me. Having drinks and lunches and dinners , watching movies, sledding, shopping, swimming, sitting around campfires (with or without flaming mallows), together laughing and making memories.

Life is short, and that's the stuff o' life. I want s'more of that.