Here, in this post, I am stepping back and thinking about things. Specifically thinking about the girl. I don't often veer into Mommy Blog territory. There are a lot of Mommy Blogs out there. Most of which are fun to read, and some are very well written. I don't want to write about my kids. Not here anyway. Here is for me. Me beyond a Mom.
Which is not entirely true. If you click on the label Pancake, 95% of the entire archive will come up. If you are a Mom, you are no longer separate. The same for goes for being a wife and a nurse.
So, I wonder. Will she ever read this? What if my daughter decides to poke around and read some of the things written here. I am hyper aware of this. Even though she is only six. And she can only read a little.
But, I am hyper aware of my responsibility to her no matter what I do. Even if it is blogging. Even if she never reads a word, she still hears what I write. And I want her to here my love.
What I fear most is for her to read the sad and icky parts. The parts where I call her grandparents out for not being so nice. Or call out her Grandad for being a bit of a selfish jerk. Or call out her Grandma for being, well, not being the mom I want. I don't say these things out loud to her. She loves these people. And I nurture this. It would hurt her to hear these things. But yet I write them here. And when she is old enough, I will let her read these posts. And not censor her view of my blog. The key is 'old enough'.
Old enough is a process really. It is more a matter of emotional maturity. Which I am teaching her. I mean, I am honest with my feelings and I am teaching her to be honest about hers. She is, in turn, teaching the cat this skill. When we moved the cat into the house this weekend, he was all spooked. Pancake made it a point to tell the cat, "I know your scared, it's ok to be scared, we love though, and we are here for you." She gently pet the cat as she did this. Again, sometimes she is so wonderful, my heart actually aches.
BUT enough stalling.
Pancake my love-
Someday, I will post things here that um, I didn't even tell your Dad until we had been married for five years. I may not be direct, but there is a lot of pain and complexity to Mommy. Being complex is Mommy's Achilles Heel. I use to be wrapped up in a lot of pain and selfishness. I've struggled. It has been ugly at times. But it's ok. It is through struggle that we learn and grow.
And I wouldn't be the Mommy I am to you and Mac without the trails and tribulations.
Mark my words dear love, your Mommy is getting simpler every day . . . .
There was a time, last week, when the Mrs. Hall profile, and other assorted items, didn't display next to the posts on the main page of this blog. This got me ancy. And I did all sorts of things to try and fix it. Switched things around in the layout section, resaved, switched templates.
Then, after a couple Tom and Jerry drinks (a frozen yummy mix you mix with brandy and rum) I basically lost my blog and all the archives with all my futzing. For ten minutes, the main page was a bunch of MS-DOS characters. I really almost freaked out. I mean, Christ! HOLY SHITE!
Luckily, Mr. Hall was able to retrieve it. Which was great. After all, he made me the drinks.
I lost the scores to Potter's Ground though. And some other stuff. But, the archives survived. Either way, I decided to change things up for the new year. I tried to switch my profile to a redhead babe (people kept thinking I was Asian-I'm white).
But have you ever typed "redhead" into Google image search? Thousands and Thousands of porn images. Seriously, eww.
But I did find a nifty banner under the search for "red dress". Hence the new banner. I like the polar bear. Fitting on account of all the snow around here. Plus, I like how the woman is sleeping and peaceful. Things are sleepier and more comfy during winter. And I did find another babe for the profile.
So, my question for Potter's Ground . . . . . .
What is your favorite drinking song?
or
What is you best drinking story?
Points awarded accordingly and dangit, I will look over things to try and figure out as to who was in the lead . . . . .
Um. Before we begin, FYI- my profile and whatnot has decided it wants to stay underneath the main posts. No matter what I do to coax it back up, to the right of the main posts. It is not my place to question why the blog choses this, it is only my place to keep posting ;)
When I was a wee Holly, I would always have a hard time waking up on Christmas morning. My brother would be the first one up, poking me before it was light out. One year, he kept jabbing me with a gray plastic ship thing. "HOLLY!! HOLLY!!! LOOK WHAT SANTA BROUGHT?!!"
I remember murmuring something and going back to bed. It was no shock there were a lot of presents, after all, that is what Santa Claus does, bring presents. They could wait till I was done sleeping in.
This was a child's understanding of Christmas. This is a child's innocence and logic. I am now an adult.
The magic I felt, the joy I knew, it is still there. It is a choice I make, to dive back into my childhood understanding and swim to the warm bottom. And there I am happy. The happiness propels me into action. I spread the joy and love to others. And because of this, magic still exists. And because of this, Santa still exists.
It's so cold that my windshield wiper fluid froze. THAT'S RIGHT! My wiper fluid. Yeah I know, wiper fluid has antifreeze in it. But, it never had a chance. It being day four of -35 degrees. Wait, I mean FUCKING THIRTY FIVE DEGREE BELOW FUCKING ZERO!
Had to throw some HEET on it. That worked actually. I heart HEET
2. MAN! It's cold outside!
(again, all together now)
HOW COLD IS IT???
It's so cold that the act of walking into work causes the cheeks to get all red and chapped. And I wear a face wrap thing, the kind that goes under ski helmets. Seriously, I ran the mail to another building and I got windburn on my cheek. Blistered and everything. Next time, I am sending the security guard to do it. On his off hours he runs a snow removal business. He makes more money then the doctors I bet. Either way, he is made of steel, this Mr. Clean.
3. MAN! It's cold outside!!
(again)
HOW COLD IS IT???
It so cold, that after I scraped the 4 inches of snow, excuse me FUCKING FOUR FUCKING INCHES OF GODDAMN FUCKING SNOW off my car that had accumulated while I worked, I still had to scrape a good 1/2 inch layer of frost and ice. Then I got in the car and realized, oh, I guess you can get frost on the inside of your windshield too. WTFFFFFFFFF!!!!!!!!!!!!!
4. All that scraping the snow, um, I actually broke my scraper this morning. I mean, I think the snow can hear me. I mean, how else could that happen? Has anyone else broken their scraper??
I mean really, COME ON!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
So, let me apologize to the snow. I'm sorry snow.
Please don't snap my scrapers in half anymore. I mean, it's nothing personal.
BUT! Despite all this, I still got the Christmas Spirit!!
Oh baby oh baby!! I still feel the Christmas Joy!
And this is why . . . . . .
As Pancake and I were walking into a store I says:
4. "Pancake, It's sooo cold outside!
"Mommy, it's really cold! "
"It's so cold my butt fell clean off. Take a look back there, it's laying by the car. Can you see it Pancake?"
She looks back, looks at me, all devilish smile, all silly grin, "Don't worry Mom, I'll glue it back on!"
God, I love being a mom to a six year old. Good times ;)
AND THEN . . .
4. We bought sleds for the kids. They have been staring something fierce at the wee Pancake for a week. We live 2 blocks from a snow hill that she passes every morning. With it being too cold, all have been unused. If I was Pancake, I would not have been so polite for so long.
But she has been polite. And gentle in her pleas and wanting. Finally, I just couldn't take how nice she was taking it. She couldn't either. She broke down, I broke down. And I pulled her around the backyard, in the snow, for 15 minutes. Burnt the other cheek and almost broke the sled because the snow as so deep and frozen. Did I mention the snow was waist deep on me? I'm five four btw.
But man. We got back in and she was GLOWING! Hoping up and down.
HOP HOP HOP HOP HOP HOP HOP!!! HAPPY HAPPY HAPPY HOP HOP HOP!!!
So yes, I have the Christmas Spirit.
I hope you do to. If no, you can always borrow a cup when you stop by.
Welcome back to Potter's Ground, where being creative in the comments and knowing stuff about music gets you points.
It was suspended last week on account of Slyde's car story. I still don't know what to do with it. I mean, how do I assign points to THAT story. (click here for the contest, scroll through the comments to get at Slyde's story.) Maybe ya'll can help me out with what to do there.
But-it is now officially my favorite time of the year CHRISTMAS!!!
So, what is your favorite Christmas song and why?
My current favorite is "Jingle Bells" because little Mac (son age 2) can sing it really, really loud.
I will spare you all from the audio.
But, my all time favorite is "We're a couple of misfits" because well, it fits :)
I would like to say though, I do run around willy nilly!
O-BTW, when the song plays a little advert comes up on the screen, just click on the x to shut it down and enjoy the video! :)
For some reason, sometimes the comment option doesn't show up.
1. Try refreshing the blog. 2. Try coming back in a few minutes. 3. Email comments at butcher (dot) hollow (at) gmail (dot) com
Last night we all went out for a Christmas Drink, the coworkers and I. I fared quite well. People who work in mental health are odd by default. It is good to be among your own people. There was much laughing and politically incorrect humor.
It got me thinking though.
Work friends aren't real friends. Well, no not really. And dammit. I like laughing and being with people. So, inspired by a comment I left on Slyde's blog, I looked up if there were any bloggers from the city where I live. Actually, I punched in the bigger city that is next to my city.
DAMN!!!!
Freaking 692 blogs.
The kids are almost up from their naps and I don't have time to really wade through them yet but eek!
Ya see, I am a minority. I am cultured and am well, a bit different in general. I am like able but, a bit introspective and shy. In other words, typically cerebral writer type girl. So, as I freakin' seek to make some freakin' friends in this town, perhaps I should use the blogosphere to expand my fishing pool.
Good to see that there are other bloggers in North Dakota. Oh wait, don't I live in Alaska? I enjoyed the week I lived in Florida the best. Has noone noticed I change my location every so often ;)
hee hee
Does anyone have experience with this sort of thing?
Not to bum everyone out here, but there was a recent death in the family. It was not a shock really, the guy was 82. Let's call him Kermit. He and his wife lived very far away from the centralized clan. Thus, no one was really close to him and hadn't seen him for a long time. I really have no emotional connection to him. Honestly, I wasn't sure who he was at first.
My family is catholic. And so was Kermit. Typically, religion provides kindling for igniting passions and family fighting. So, when Kermit, at the tender age of 16, started dating a Lutheran girl, well . . . It was not a welcomed relationship. She did not help things by being bossy and kind of nuts. She rubbed people the wrong way.
This weekend, I listened as my mom described her behavior from FIFTY years ago, when they started dating. How she would go to the car on Christmas eve, lest she hear the radio broadcast of the Catholic Pope's Prayer. Her family was just as uppity about her Lutheran status as we were about being Catholic. Again, this did not help things.
There is another layer here though. And Lord help me for airing my family's dirty laundry, but here goes. This woman, who I have met and I like, is genuinely messed up in significant ways. Outwardly, she is tight and controlling. She use to carry a tiny poddle around but never let the kids pet it at Christmas gatherings. I never got to pet the tiny dog. The dog was skinny and shook a lot. All teacup size with big eyes. There is a metaphor in that dog. You see it right?
She was very dominating to Kermit. And to their son. He still lives with her. He is about 45 years old. It is creepy, this arrangement. The son is in a state of arrested development. Most likely, he will never move out. He will stay a skinny kid. Complete with short sleeve dress shirt and tie. Going on vacations with his Mom to Las Vegas. Creepy . . .
But again, on the outside, she was very dominating and kind of nuts. I got a big peak into her insides as the funeral was being planned. Holy Good Lord, she is the most bitter person I have every heard speaking. She has catalogued all the things our family has all done wrong to her. All of our trespasses. She has gigantic lists of wrongs, of ugly acts committed onto her. It is all very detailed, all spoken with frothy venom. She must have pie charts.
The version of events, her version, is partly based in reality. At least somewhat. The years have added spiteful detail. But, she has some personal responsibility in this too. Either way, this death has unearthed a lot of postmortem scuttlebutt.
Which brings me to me.
Wait for it . . . .
Keep waiting . . .
Ok, almost there?
And go!
I came into my marriage, into my husband's life, encountering his closed family system. I separated him from that system and was not welcomed. I did not help myself by being especially gracious. I was simply being myself. And I wonder now, now that things are 65% healed, if it would have made any difference. If I would have been golden, gracious and warm 100% of the time, would we have had more of his family at the wedding?
If I would have put my pride below the needs of him and his family, would it still be so strained? Because, when I think it over, my pride, and perhaps my nutz and demanding tendencies was just me, learning how to be a real girlfriend. Learning how to be stable in a relationship. Learning how to give and recieve proper, warm and stable love.
Love that acts as a greenhouse from which our rainforest still grows.
I face this though. These bits of bitterness when I see them at gatherings. I still feel bitter about how I wasn't welcomed and squished with love by his family. And here it is. Just the bits. And with this death in the family, with hearing that wife's words, I hear a warning. I am letting go of the bits.
And forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive them that trespass against us.
Jeff is now living here three-four days a week. WEE-HEE for me and ours! Too bad for the blog here. She suffers, this blog. She misses my daily posts. But she doesn't touch my boobies so nana na na na!
Went to the children's museum on Saturday. I must say, the kid's museum up here, in this semi small town is actually nicer than the one we use to go to. It's bigger, more room for the kids to run around, touching things, running headlong into people their own size. Lots of little kid on kid fun.
And like most kid museums, there is a play area shaped like a little restaurant. Complete with faux soda fountains, plastic ovens and spongy counter seats. There is an area for the costumers (a.k.a. Moms and Dads) where they can be waited on by eager 6-10 year olds. They cook the plastic food and rush it over to the table. I am telling you people, Moms and Dads can sit for 34-43 minutes, being waited on over and over.
THIS IS BRILLIANT!!! BRILLIANT I SAY!!!
Whoever decided this should be part of any and all kid's museums, well, seriously, I would like to buy them a drink! They should get a million dollars or something. After all, there is no other time in my parenting career where I have sat for 34-43 minutes while the kids were awake. Let alone serving me faux food. ;)
Yet here is the dilemma. Jeff often chases the wee Mac during these times. As do most Dads. Which leaves the Moms. We are all slightly over educated, stylish and have brown hair. And this Saturday, it was me and another Mom. I smiled at her, perhaps made small talk to put her at ease. After all, her daughter was sort of, um, bossing Pancake around. Which is fine really, Pancake enjoys being the helper and can stand up for herself if needs be.
I have a great smile.
And um, this other Mom, she responded. And I fucking shut down like a goddamn baby turtle. I stopped making eye contact. I purposefully avoided more talking. She did offer more. She made a joke even!
I wonder if this is what guy's go through. Figuring out how to talk to other women. Man it must suck. At least I have an idea of what to say. I am a girl afterall. But dag nammit!
I remembered my promise to knock this off. This shyness. After all, I deserve to make friends, to have lunch at restaurants that don't have menus you can color on, with people I don't have to threaten with a time out.
hmmm
Well, Jeff did buy a membership to the kid's museum. He has instructed me we are going EVERYWEEKEND! So next time.
Next time. I will get my un-shy on and say something. You mark my words!
This is Santa Claus, checking the list to see if Pancake (my daughter, age 5) and Mac ( my son, age 2) have been naughty or nice. I can guarentee you, they have been good as gold. :)
This year, my daughter believes in Santa Claus. It is a deeper and more elaborate belief than last year.
As we were shopping for sweaters on Sunday, the topic of Santa came up. She would hold up things and say, "I want this for Christmas" and then politely put it back. After two or three times, I said, you need to wait until you see Santa, then you can tell him what you want for Christmas. She came close to me, with a very serious look on her face. Then she whispered, "Mom, he can hear us now, and when you say you want it for Christmas, he knows. He's watching us right now."
I felt a rush of wow, weird and misty eyed. Then, I heartily agreed with her assessment. "Yes, you're right, he can hear us right now." We smiled.
Last night, we went to see Mr. Claus himself. She sat on his lap, not saying much, more basking in the happiness. He had to gently coax her into talking. It took a few minutes, this visit. She was beaming the whole time.
After, I asked her what they talked about. "I asked him for a Hanna Montana coloring book. And I told him Mac is too little to ask, so I asked for an Elmo for him." I asked her what else she might want Santa to bring her. "Santa can bring what he wants, he can decide", she said smiling.
I asked her what Santa said to her, "Did he ask what your name is sweetheart?"
"Mom, he already knows who I am, silly".
Again, a mixture of holy good Lord, she really believes.
And to top the night off she chanted this on the ride home:
"S-A-N-T-A, SANTA SANTA! He's our man!"
The kicker though, the absolute kicker, happened when I was tucking her into bed.
"Can we get a present for Santa when he comes? I wish we can get him a present too."
Welcome back to Potter's Ground, the game that connects knowing stuff about music and being creative with your comments.
I have a lot on my mind this week: ambition, overachieving, being thankful, anger and Oprah vagina forgiveness. All fodder for posts and for Potter's Ground. I was hard pressed for a specific idea though. But, then Slyde wrote about Kayne West and there it is. This week's idea!
Thanks Slyde :)
So, one of the better dog walking songs out there is "Gold Digger" by the ever egotistical Kayne West. It is a challenge to enjoy his music because of his large and loud ego talk. But, I am skilled at separating the art from the artist when I enjoy the arts. Mr. West has a few gems in his gallery of songs. Jesus Walks is the best of them for dog walking (for obvious reasons). But that is not what this week's contest is about.
This week's contest tests how closely you have been paying attention. In this blog, I have mentioned a previous car I owned by it's manufacturer at least twice, if not three times. The last time I mentioned it, was very recently. It is mentioned in the Gold Digger song.
ID the car and/or share any car story you would like. Points awarded accordingly.
Good luck!
Hey, btw, I didn't realize the amount of pin up/half naked girl action in this video (careful if you are watching this, eek!)
Oh, and if you want to hear any of the topics, mentioned above, sooner rather than later, say so in the comments.
I have challenged myself to be thankful every day. So this week, here is a peek as to what I am thankful for. Click here for further visuals.
1. At the playground this summer, after a rainy spell, Pancake was playing on the swings with a friend. Her friend was on a swing, asking for a push. She promptly wiped her muddy hands on her shirt and then pushed him, very gingerly. It stopped my breath, this show of consideration.
2. We were out to dinner with a friend and her daughter, about Pancake's age (5). They both ordered chocolate milk for their respective beverage. When the waitress brought them, Pancake took the first chocolate milk and passed it to the other girl. After the other girl was settled, Pancake then took her own. I almost cried I was so proud.
3. A few days ago, she wrote a letter to Santa. Her list was reasonable. At the end of the letter she wrote, "Please bring an Elmo for Mac". This is her little two year old brother. I did cry as I read this. She is endlessly giving to him, endlessly patient and snuggly.
This girl of mine, this wonderful, wonderful girl. I am so blessed.
Last winter, it snowed 350 inches. This is no joke. What that means, in real life terms, is that once or twice a week during winter, it snowed 6 or 7 inches. EVERY FUCKING WEEK. And then, on three separate occasions, it snowed a fucking FOOT AND MORE. In one day.
Now, I try to be a rational human being, I try to look at the brightside of all this. But fucking goddammit. I mean sure, the snow, so far, has been the dusty type. Which is fine. I still get to wear my cute boots. I can live in denial for a while. The kids look cute in there snow gear. But dammit, fucking five inches this morning. Which means I have to wear fucking ugly waterproof winter boots and sweaters. fuck. fuck. fuck.
Which is fine. I mean, last winter Mr. Hall was on a business trip during most of the winter storm SHITE!
And no, we had no snowblower, so I would literally have to leave work early to start shoveling so I could get the kids home ok. And when it would FUCKING SNOW FUCKING NONSTOP MOTHERFUCKING INCHES?
I would strap the kids in the pre-warmed car, give them juice boxes, treats and books, turn on the radio, adjust the heater and shovel while they were in the car. I mean, my son was one years old, I couldn't leave him in the house alone with a five year old. And I had to shovel out from a 4 foot high wall., to get them to school. Ya'll know the wall right? The one the plow guys leave at the end of your driveway. WHICH FUCKING TURNS TO FUCKING SOLID ICE DURING THE NIGHT. I would check on them periodically whilst I shoveled AND CHIPPED AWAY and it worked out for a while. Finally, I threw myself on the mercy of my neighbors, telling them of my temporary single mom hood and they helped me out quite a bit.
But man. IF YOU ARE SNOW AND YOU ARE READING THIS. FUCK YOU AND YOUR FUCKING FUCK FUCK FRIENDS AND YOUR DOG TOO! YOU AND RAT BASTARD COUSIN, FUCKING WINDCHILL OF FUCKING -35 DEGREES!
On brighter note, this song will always mean special winteriness. I would drive the kids around to look at the Christmas lights during this time, and this song would always play. Pancake loves the part about the wedding cake.
Turn it up loud and wiggle along. EXCEPT YOU SNOW! FUCKING GET THE HELL OUT OF HERE!
Here's a situation that demonstrates just how odd my thinking can be.
True story about me.
There is a security guard where I work. Oh, let's call him Mr. Clean. That is what he looks like. Only, he wears a black cop's uniform complete with handgun on his hip. No, not a taser, not pepper spray, but an actual gun.
Last week, he brought these very different peppers from his garden. Small skinny red ones, yellow ones that are bigger than cherries, and shriveled green ones. He also brought ones called Habaneros. Only he said they are hotter than regular habaneros. His own special breed I guess. He is a very nice and relaxed guy. I enjoy seeing him and exchanging pleasantries. He is well liked.
When I leave at night, he walks me and all the female staff to their car. He hangs out, making sure we get in our cars and they start. Now, I park about 20 feet from the clinic entrance. Really, no issues with having to walk far, like say, to a parking garage. It takes thirty seconds to get to my car.
Yet, he does this, every time he works. Also, he opens the clinic door for me as I exit. As he does with all the women. Which I don't mind really. I like having doors opened for me. Well, I like the acknowledgment of being a woman, in this very polite way. I like being a woman. In fact, it rocks.
Yet I am so very, very threatened and put ill at ease by this ritual. Threatened by him, the security guard. It is not the gun, the uniform, the masculine Mr. Clean energy. I feel comfortable with who he is. Yet, I have to breathe through these times at the end of the day.
Figuring out why is a no brainer. I lack a filter to understand what nice and safe male attention is and what is threatening. I lack discernment in my alarm system. My mind goes into over analyze mode during these types of events. Scanning for signs of potential harm. My mind thinks around this situation, scanning, being alert, and leaving me out of breath.
What I need to do, is mentally shut up. I need to cue into what I am feeling. What I am sensing. This, really, is nothing but thanks for walking me to my car. I have worked so many places where I, as a nurse alone, have walked to my car in the pitch black. Many, many times, running to my car at midnight, jumping in and locking the doors. So yes, this is awesome; having a security guard making sure the women are safe.
I am kind of miffed that this type of security escort didn't happen where a nurse was actually raped in the parking garage after her shift. That parking garage had like 20 levels. I always parked where I was not suppose to. Closer to the door. Screw them and thier parking signs, I err on the side of safety.
And maybe this is what I need to do. Instead of shutting up completely, perhaps blend the mind and the senses. Use my senses to feel for danger, using my head to know the danger.
Sounds better than having a taser or pepper spray. This would be a bad idea. After all, I actually sprayed pepper spray in my dorm room to see what it was like. No one can accuse me of being a genius.
This post is an extention of this week's Potter's Ground.(click here) Go ahead and enter, there is still time to score points!
What Almost Famous means to me:
1. One Sunday morning, (age 29) I was watching "The Motorcycle Diaries." Somewhere after the first twenty minutes I started to feel really, really nauseous. I actually um, threw up four times. Wore me out. Yet, I felt nothing but joy. I knew little Mac was real and growing inside me. I was pregnant! I called in sick for work and put in Almost Famous.
2. While I never worked for Rolling Stone, or followed a band on tour, I recognize a lot of the movie as my own. I am a writer and when I was a wee pup, I moved to a gigantic city. I fell in with a band of gypsy-like people and spent a year being very, very happy. I was 19. For the first time ever, and for the first time, I felt like I belonged. I felt cool. But, this is where it gets a little sad.
But, the sad part is . . . Well, the really sad part is, the end of the movie rings just as true. I forget the lines, but the conversation occurs between the Kate Hudson character and the boy.
They are discussing her upcoming 'trip' to Morocco. She talks about this a lot, it is like her Mecca. And at some point, he calls her on it. He says, WAKE UP! Your imaginary world, your imaginary trip to Morocco is just that, a fantasy.
And back then, at age nineteen, it was a fantasy. When I woke up and I realized the band of Gypsies were really just a bunch of drug dealers and street urchin. I am neither of those. Those kids that had been on their own since they were little. They had no ability to really love me, I was just an instrument of gain. I was being used most of the time and I had no idea.
Jeez, this is turning kind of sad. It's important though. Important that it happened when it did. Important that I had no real money at time. That I slept on an army cot in a walk in closet. (click the previous words to see pix). I learned stuff. Important stuff through all of this. Like now, I can smell a con a mile away. It pretty much explains my year abroad.
3. The song Tiny Dancer means something very sweet to me. A few months after I got married, (age 24), we relocated 3 hours aways from where we lived. Relocation is a recurring event in our marriage. I moved first. Again, a recurring theme.
I drove my very rusty Datsun home from work at five, and it would be very dark. During one of these times, when I was sad and missing my new husband, getting all tense whilst I drove my POS car on the scary dark highway, all tense from learning a new job, I heard Tiny Dancer for the first time. I can't explain how soothing it was. Then I told Mr. Hall all about this song. Turns out he is a HUGE Elton John fan. I had no idea what I had been missing. The best part--I was driving home to him that night. He had moved up that morning, while I was at work.
There, that's better, that's a better ending to this post!
And who knows, maybe someday I really will be cool. :)
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