Still Alive, Part 1:
Skiing in Maine was fabulous. I did not die. Skiing is somewhat horrible in that for the first few hours that you are on the skis and in the snow, your body is refusing everything. You are convinced that you are going to begin falling down the mountain at uncontrollable speeds until you end up in a pile of broken bones and bloody ice hanging from your nostrils. Plus, you have all these clothes on that are puffy and weird and are too big for you. Or maybe all of this is just the amateur's response to skiing for the first time in about fifteen years.
We had a lovely house filled with lovely company, and I was so glad to have been asked. Cory even made Frito Pie.
Still Alive, Part 2:
My mother called today to see if I was still living. Over the weekend, due to who knows what, I came down with some kind of stomach virus, which sent me to the bathroom for about 36 hours in various states of "hmmm," "rush," and "emergency." I want to blog about the gory details, but something tells me that we all know them deep down somewhere already. I'm not sure I really have anything particularly revelatory or original about shitting your brains out and puking out of your nose. There, I said it.
Okay, fine, JUST THIS: after you have puked, and you blow your nose and everything, and you think you are ready to go back to bed, do one extra thing. Throw your head way back and snort around a bit. There is some kind of place back there, some kind of pocket, where the puke waits. And just when you get horizontal, it comes sloshing back into your throat, and you have to get up, spew it out, and try again. I'm just trying to save you a step.
Still Alive, Part 3:
My friend Marc, who lives in Paris, sent me a New Year's postcard with a gouache of a man who has hung himself from the top of the Christmas tree, which is bent over sideways. Underneath him is the fallen chair he has kicked over. Sort of morbid, but I thought it was hilarious. I laughed right there at the mailbox. I survived the holidaze, despite how much distaste I have for the season. The older I get, the more I'm able to just let it be what it is. I think I'm starting to realize that Christmas comes around every year, just like New Year's, and birthdays and Thanksgivings and so on. So if the fondue turns out not as thick as you wanted, eh, who cares? There's always next year. I think I'm finally starting to loosen up.