Skip to main content

Christmas every day of the year

This is what my car looked like on January 3, 2010.
Buying on eBay is a bit like creating Christmas every day of the year.

I find what I've always wanted - make my bid-  and if I've been a good girl, Santa comes down the chimney (or via Fed Ex) - in the middle of February.

Last week I discovered what I've always wanted, but didn't know I needed until I found it on eBay.

A goose-down feather filled bathrobe.  Imagine.  I've survived 63 winters without one.

Thank you, Santa.
No longer.

Any day now - any moment, actually - the doorbell will ring, I'll rush to answer - and there it will be; packed in a big, brown box. 

Christmas in February.

I write this in the dead of winter in Minnesota.  I haven't been warm in over six months.  Granted.  We've had a mild winter this year.  But a "mild" Minnesota winter assumes only twenty, thirty days with below-zero wind chill. 

Trust me.  Some of us escape to Arizona.  Others scoot to Florida.  We do what we do for one reason only.  We're Minnesotans.  We're frickin' cold.

And a girl's got to do what a girl's got to do.

If the Ebay seller is telling me the truth, I'll get my bathrobe in three days; plenty of time to snuggle by the fire and knit that mohair sweater I promised to finished by Easter.

Or, Christmas.

Comments

Popular posts from this blog

Why I no longer trust the St. Paul Police

My dogs awoke me,  barking,  at 3:00 AM -  and I knew something was wrong. I grabbed my under-the-bed baseball bat and stormed into my backyard. The car next door had been burglarized; a neighbor's garage broken into. And the woman who lives in the house behind mine was robbed in the middle of the night. And so as the flood lights slapped across my empty back yard and my dogs growled, I determined to apprehend the culprit. I searched the yard for the wretched, evil doer who would dare take advantage of the decent folks who live in Como Park. Behind me, in my living room, someone walked out the front door with my MacBook and other electronics. Because I didn't check inside the house - I didn't discover the crime until the next morning. "This ain't CSI, lady."  I phoned the police at 7:30 A.M. It took him almost an hour to get to my home - and when he finally knocked -  I opened my door to an overweigh, winded officer. By then I was frant

Here's to you, Mister Hoffman

Dustin Hoffman is eighty-years-old.  Dustin - say it isn't so. Baby Boomers around the globe worship your legacy - your brave, outrageous career where you stepped out - risked much - and led us into our maturity. As Michael Dorsey in  Tootsie  - you exposed an artist brave enough to lampoon his feminine side. As Ted Kramer, in Kramer vs. Kramer  - you challenged other men to reexamine their ability to nurture, to settle for the glories of domesticity. And no one else could have exposed the complexities  of Raymond Babbitt as did you in  Rain Man.   The world honors your excessive and grand talent - but if these allegations are true, none of that will matter.  History will forget your artistry and remember you as a dirty old man. That's what I do not understand.  You're not a B list guy - - not a "made for TV" Hollywood guy. You're Hoffman, for god's sake.  And I cannot fathom you jeopardizing your lionized legacy around someone's seve

Overheard at a coffee shop; An old woman's wisdom.

When she was a small child, she posed in front of her nursery mirror - fascinated with her reflection.  Sometimes she emulated Betty Davis.  Sometimes Shirley Temple.  When she was old enough, her mother enrolled her in tap dance classes, hoping to channel some of that ham-bone energy into something constructive. It worked.   Twice each year, the tap school dressed her in frilly, fluff-flounced costumes, put her on stage with a dozen other little show-offs,  and together they tapped their way to elementary school stardom. When she turned 13-years-old, her tap-dance gang joined the downtown YWCA where they spent their Saturdays doing something called "creative dramatics." Swimming, archery, bowling and hula absorbed their weekends, and she made new friends who introduced her to neighborhoods and families she might never have met and enjoyed. In high school, she auditioned and was cast in every onstage opportunity. In college, where the competition stiffened, she turn