It is icy cold here. My hands are chapped. I shiver perpetually. I'm goosebumpy.
Bringing sexy back. That's me.
I pile on the winter duds when I take out the pups. Those two little redheaded snippets are seemingly impervious to the cold and take their sweet time outside: romping, taking care of business, rooting for truffles.
(What else could they possibly be doing when they plunge their wee little chocolate-chip noses down to the roots of the lawn?)
Sometimes they just sit, one behind the other, and watch the world go by. Airplanes. Birds in flight. The fifty-some-odd ducks on the pond. Holly and Liza could sit for hours, just taking it all in.
That would be sweet and pleasant and enjoyable in autumn and spring. It isn't so pleasant in the high 20s, low 30s of early December. Not for this girl, who thinks that 83 degrees just might be the perfect outdoor temperature.
This afternoon, I just couldn't take the frigid air any longer—it hurt when my goosebumps so much as touched the denim of my jeans—so I slipped into my big-of-waist, long-of-leg flannel-lined jeans. I thought for sure that I wouldn't need to bring out the big guns until mid-January. But here we are: It's early December, and we still have a big old chunk of cold weather to conquer before warmer months make their way back around the calendar.
I realized this afternoon as I stood shivering in the yard that I so totally get that whole northern-states-to-southern-states snowbird thing. Jim calls Florida "Southern Long Island" because so many from the northeast flock to the Sunshine State upon retirement. My paternal grandmother did. My parents have. Several aunts and uncles have. I understand the lure of that now: The older I get, the less I tolerate the cold.
I haven't always been so difficult persnickety frail delicate: I used to be hardy. I grew up in New York, where snowfall didn't instill panic like it does in places that see less snow, less frequently. (Bread! Milk! Toilet paper! Need it! Want it! Got to, got to, got to have it!) I skated on frozen ponds. I swooped down hills on my Radio Flyer. I tobogganed. I dug tunnels through six-foot-high snowbanks. I made snowmen and snow angels and snowballs.
I romped. I tromped. I reveled in the messy white stuff.
I loved how fresh snow, free of footprints, sparkled under the moon. I liked how sand scattered by sand trucks looked like brown sugar sprinkled on top of white sugar. And I liked how that made me want to scurry home and make chocolate chip cookies from scratch.
No more, I tell you. Ice that once slipped me up and shattered my elbow makes me all sorts of anxious. Snowy, icy roads that sent my car spinning make me edgy.
And nothing makes me want to crawl up under an electric blanket more than the thought of the layers upon layers of winter clothing, the cold, the wet, the eventual numbness that encouraged me as a kid to tell my playmates, "Yeah, you know what? My eyeballs? They've frozen. Notice how I'm just, like, staring? I'm thinking that it's probably about time that I go inside. Drink some cocoa. Defrost. Emerge from the hat and hood, scarf and mittens, coat and snow pants, boots and multiple pairs of socks. Bend my arm at the elbow again; my legs at the knees."
This evening, Connor bundled up in a heavy coat. He donned a beanie and his hood and mittens. I wore my thickest, warmest gloves, fleece-lined jeans, a shirt, a sweatshirt, and one of Jim's fleece zip-ups over all of that. (I didn't want the pups' nails and teeth to mess with my scarf and coat, and, well, to be completely honest, Jim's fleece zip-up was so large on me that I could draw my hands into the sleeves and keep them all the more warm.)
Natalie scurried about, dressing herself: Coat. Chunky knit hat. And muck boots, just because she can.
I heard her say to herself, "My mittens! I need my mittens!" And then she galumphed into the kitchen.
Natalie has no mittens, no gloves. I haven't bought her any because the process of helping a little bitty hand into a glove, navigating sweet tiny fingers into their proper places is surely one of the most patience-testing tasks ever. The hands ball into fists. The thumb can't ever seem to find where it belongs. Each finger is in the wrong slot. The digits are naked mole rats, blind and lost in the dark tunnel that is the glove.
So, Natalie has no mittens, no gloves. (She does, however, have a lovely selection of chunky knit hats. So, you know, there's that.)
But back to the story. Recapping, Natalie declared her need for mittens.
"Natalie? What mittens?" I called.
I heard a clang.
And then a bang.
And then my little resourceful miss rounded the corner, wearing the little red gingham oven mitts that she uses with her play kitchen.
Oh my.
I melted, bitter cold temps and all.
"We really need to buy some new mittens, Mommy." She scrunched up her face. "These tickle my 'fum,'" she explained, mispronouncing "thumb."
Love that girl.
(That look of despair on Trouser's face? She was fending off nippy puppies and had about had it.)
I know now to put mittens at the tippy top of Natalie's needs/wants list. Tell me in a comment one item that is on your list of wants or needs. One commenter will win a $30 gift certificate good for a purchase from T. Michael Studios.
Timothy Michael Kelly makes custom carved plaques and home goods from slate that he has reclaimed from buildings and barns built during the early 1800s through 1900s.
We have the "No Soliciting" sign and love it. Rustic. Classy. One of a kind. Just perfect.
Submit your comment by this Friday, December 9. Connor will draw a comment from a hat that evening. I'll post the winner's name, and I'll contact him or her by e-mail. If you'd like two chances to win, like bug and the sweet banana on Facebook.
Many thanks for reading my little blog, commenting, and sharing!
Ready. Set. Go.
©Jennifer Linney. All Rights Reserved.