A Christmas Miracle

'Twas the Eve of the Eve of Christmas and while I lay sleeping the wires in the fuse box in the wall near my feet melted and oozed and burned out their protective covering. Coincidence that my feet felt extra toasty? Yes, as the Christmas miracle has nothing to do with the almost fire and obituary of 2009.

This miracle left a much sweeter memory in the form of the forgotten wedding cake. Actually it was late and misplaced finally to be delivered by Santa's helper.

The cake was a trial run by my sisters (in hopes of making an actual wedding cake soon or becoming the next Landers sisters or first Martha Stewart twins) and I with my fetish for wedding cake asked to join the mess. It was a huge mess and wasn't done in the one day we'd left time for it. So I left Lamar without tasting the masterpiece. The twins finished it and Daniel was appointed to bring a slice to me in Salt Lake.

He forgot the frozen slice and had to backtrack to get it. Then in a redeeming haste thought to refreeze in a guy's collegiate apartment on the first night of his travels where he again forgot my cake.

I believed the cake had been eaten as soon as he left but one of two things happened. Either his friends were repulsed by the many flowers glued to the thick fondant frosting or they possess elfin qualities enabling them to resist the cake and deliver it on Christmas break.

The Birds!

A noticeable lull hit in November and I had nothing to tell, self induced or turkey induced the daze is gone and life hurls at me like a giant snowball; or a pigeon at the Salt Lake City Library (winner of the 2006 Best Library award). Back to the pigeons.

I work with someone who finds flying birds terrifying. And birds prancing on the ground? Just a prelude to disaster, something I forgot one blustery December morning. As I encouraged a fast pace to the car my friend's limbs locked in terror.

Once I realized she wasn't by my side I doubled back to be greeted with a cry of despair and death grip around my diaphragm. It did slow the breathing process and served as a not so gentle reminder of her bird fear. It also pushed me over because she tried to bury her head inside my chest cavity. Thankfully my skin wouldn't give, neither did my ribs, but my spine took the brunt force and bent into a yoga move I've yet to name.

To counter this attack I used my best sweet and confident voice to reassure her that pigeons don't attack people. You will be ok I chanted. Until I looked behind her and found a bird hovering over her head. Panicked I rearranged body into another unknown yoga position and tried to pry her off me while shooing the bird. A balancing act on ice.

The more I threw my arm at the pigeon the bigger it grew. Its chest puffed up to the size of a balloon and its talons became finger-like. My friend's straw colored haired head looked like the perfect nest for that pigeon. I'm not even sure they nest, but obviously it was deranged. Pigeons are not supposed to land on people's head. And library pigeons should be the tamest.

Alfred Hitchcock knew something I have only recently discovered.

Just Another Manic Monday

Especially if you are commonly mistaken for a celebrity. Mondays for me are are the .5 day of my 1.5 day weekend. Translation—I feel pretty comfortable not showering, fixing my hair or applying makeup and I dress for comfort in bright fashion. And it works, especially when you need to spend an hour with strangers.

I went to a day program to observe someone I work with planning on quietly standing in the corner. I forgot to factor in the Christmas spirit which is more rampant in the youth and special needs demographic. As ten minutes passed one of the staff there skipped up to me.

She seemed about my age and a fun bubbly girl with long dark hair and bright eyes. So when she gushed immediately about my natural beauty I felt awkward and underdressed. Then she kept going, my long dark hair that she noticed the first time I'd visited the program and arrived at the conclusion that I was the most beautiful woman she'd seen. Ah-hem. What do you say to that? Thanks and what time did you want to pick me up for our date? Again I repeat I felt awkward.

The blushed burned a little deeper when moments later one of the clients asked about me. My admirer asked the special needs person if I looked familiar...maybe like Snow White.

"SNOW WHITE?! Is she really Snow White?" the girl exclaimed with complete sincerity.

The staff laughed and nodded her head yes. In seconds she had crossed the room running at top speed and plowed into me.

"I'm so glad to meet you. Are you Snow White?" she asked.

Hmmm. Who am I to disappoint at Christmas. In my most regally sweet voice I answered yes and dramatically dropped my curved hand into hers and shook it like a queen.

A line soon formed and I wished for a ball gown with a red cape.

O Tannenbaum

As a child I remember nagging my family put up our Christmas tree at the beginning of the season, the day after Thanksgiving. Now I'm lucky if I get to see the tree when I go home a few days before Christmas. But this year after seeing themed trees bursting with ribbon and ornaments at the Festival of trees I knew it was up to me to revive the Christmas spirit in Utah.

I made Skip help me construct a tree from copper wire. Actually I think he ripped the wire from my hands when I failed to correctly twist and pull the wire. Then we strung popcorn and cranberries on more wire to wrap around our tree. Again the decoration was ripped from my hands. Why? Because I failed to find the exact spot to puncture the popcorn. For those of you who have never thread popcorn along wire there is an exact spot on the popcorn where the wire must go. Funny I never found that spot but did force the popcorn into place.

We ended up with a mess of a spirally wiry tree that couldn't hold the popcorn and cranberry necklace. It leaned like a Dr. Seuss hat and provoked the embarrassment and love of a sparse Charlie Brown tree. I guess it was the result of a middle-aged white rapper fond of rhyming and a forlorn girl missing a homemade Christmas.

We bought a live evergreen a few days later. It has white lights and silver glitter ornaments.

The Attentive Sister

In the ironic world that is my life I found myself superimposed in a comedy. While sitting on the couch watching the Denver Broncos get trampled by defending super bowl champs Pittsburgh Steelers I embarrassedly cheered for orange and blue. Love the CO.

The embarrassment came not only because my team was losing but because my boyfriend and new roommate mocked them horribly. I couldn't fight back because the Broncos were sucking at the moment, but in support of my brothers I stood firm as a fan. Which led to talk of brothers or maybe just a get-to-know-you game for all involved.

My new roommate Cameron mentioned she had a younger brother serving a mission in the Philippines. Hmmm. My youngest brother Daniel just got back from the Philippines. Which mission I casually threw out? San Pablo she replied and I defiantly shook my head thinking I'd remember if that had been Daniel's mission.

UH. Turns out you only remember such things if you pay attention, like she did to her brother, because when I said that my brother's name was Daniel Hall I thought she was going to shoot out of her seat and bump her head on the ceiling.

"You're last name's Hall? Daniel Hall?! He's one of my brother's favorite missionaries!"

Oh. Right. San Pablo. Mission. Brother. Nope, still wouldn't have known. All this excitement led Daniel to research and find something horrifying, evidence of his neglectful sister—he's been referenced twice on this blog in two years, and neither were for his birthday. That's probably a lie but I can't remember what he told me. Maybe this is his debut.
The signs were there. My 'weekly' emails occurred once a month, if that, and those last few months involved Daniel emailing me in Tagalog so I'd have to email him back for a translation. Damn my curiosity.

Not even the promise of pink pearls could urge me to write to him to remind him to find me some.

So here's to Daniel, lost no more, living just 45 minutes away and loved even if he forgot my wedding cake in Colorado.

First Snow

However unprepared I am for frozen toes (some years I've been wearing flip-flops) I'm always curiously smitten with the first snow.


It's Mother Nature teasing us. The trees slowly shed their leaves which line the sidewalks and streets in fall-patterned wrapping paper. Flowers burst with a final glimpse of color before the browns, grays and blues of winter settle in. The evening's chill lasts far into the next day's sun. And then you wake up to snow.

The heavy moisture laden flakes joined in a small snowball gently lobbed from the sky. Plastering the leaves. Smashing the flowers so the blooms droop. Soaking the streets and smothering the green grass.

Ohhh Mother Nature, she found a way to make a super-soaker relevant in the 30 degree weather.

Smelling Something Fishy

I'm not sure where to even begin. I guess at the beginning but when that was I don't know. The problem with a lack of a dependable smeller is that I can't remember when it was dependable. Years ago if ever. And then my witch doctor gave me some drops for my stomach which actually cleared up my ever-present allergies. The result? I could smell, I could breathe, I could sleep face down in a goose-down pillow without choking.

When the drops ran out I had two days of good smelling followed by days of glitches. My sniffer fades in and out, mostly out.

A blessing when some pleasant but noisome neighbors moved in downstairs. I only suffered for three days (three long days where every smell plowed me over, my stomach churned and my mouth watered wickedly at each new venue and greeting each new person). My roommates have further complaints.

A couple nights ago the sniffer came back. In a crowded movie theater as I sat down between some friends and a stranger wearing some brand of grandmothery flower power perfume. I lurched a little in my seat, tensed up tilted my head and twisted my face into a complex look of horror, amazement, disgust and fear. Imagine a little kid sucking a lemon, the girl from the Exorcist with a twisting head and a wrinkled pig-like nose. Non-fiction isn't always pretty.

In the midst of my reaction Sharlee leaned over to ask what was wrong. I didn't even have to say anything because she answered herself by noting the strong odor. Then a new friend leaned over to exclaim, LOUDLY:

"Is it that girl's perfume? Does she need to move down one? Is it making you sick? Is it a bad smell? Just tell her to come sit over here."

While the rest of the theater stared us down Sharlee and I giggled in a lower volume.

And then to add injury I moved.

But that's not the oohhh moment of this story. Two days later I'm sitting in a kitchen with some corn boiling on the stove. From another room, a ways off, comes an urgent question, "Is something burning?"

I reassuringly said no because I couldn't smell anything. A look in the pot confirmed my lost sense. I may never wear perfume again or sit by anyone who is because that smell overwhelms me. However, a fire can claim my life as the smell of burning passes undetected.