(not cool enough for a title)

I can hardly believe it's November already. The weather here, so much more mild than we're used to, has lulled us into a belief in an eternal Autumn. Tonight though, it's blustery, leaves swarming from the trees and through the night, highlighted as they blow and swirl under the street lamps, caught up in gusts of wind.

I'm so ready for November, though. I'm ready for colder weather, for snow waltzing past the windows; for baking cookies, listening to Bing Crosby, and stringing white lights around our apartment.

We're considering purchasing a fake Christmas tree this year. I use the word "considering," even though it's almost a done deal, because part of me inside screams and dies every time I even think "fake Christmas tree." It would be much easier, less hassle and -- you can see I'm still trying to justify even the idea to myself -- because our apartment is dry and we have no Real Vacuum Cleaner...and I can just picture myself using wads of duct-tape to pick up all the dry needles. If we do get a fake tree, though, there are a few stipulations:

1.) There must be quality pine-scented candles burning during all waking hours.
2.) The tree can't look too fakey (I'm choking on my cynical laughter); i.e. it can't be white (there shouldn't be a need to even write that - but someone, okay, John, suggested it. White? White tree? Crazy!)
3.) It must be covered with white lights and ornaments, trying to hide all fake branches.

Have any of you ever had a fake Christmas tree? What do you do with it? What made you decide to get it?

Photo Vignettes from Sunday Afternoon

Doesn't he look studious? Please note the remote, just next to his hand, ready anytime we hear a burst of yelling from the apartment next door, meaning that something exciting/bad happened in the Patriots/Colts game, the studious look is shattered as he un-mutes the tv and joins in the jubilation/disappointment.




Dress: New, on clearance; marked down from $36.00 to $3.60. Necklace: Vintage, free-thrifted (lifted?); it was my Mom's when she was my age.



Mexican Lovebirds. From Mexico. Obviously. Nestled (haha, nestled) together on our living-room endtable.

Gluten-free Pumpkin Spice Muffins:

Two years and counting...

From this:



To this:



And this:



Then this:



And, now, this:




It just keeps getting better and better. Happy two-year anniversary, baby! I love you.

An Ode to Accomplishment and, again, strange dreams.

Lately, with getting another year older (at least, I hope that's the reason), I've had innumerable flashbacks to my childhood. Things I hadn't thought of for years; memories that had lay dormant for so long I wasn't aware of their existence. And thinking back to the little girl I used to be, I realize how important it is for me to have the motivation and courage to do what I've always wanted to. It's not impossibly inaccessible; it would just take passion, effort, and a lot of committment (and really, doesn't marriage have those exact requirements, as well? And the marriage area here is amazing - I love, love being married). In another 23 years, and another 23 after that, I don't want to look back and still wonder what would've happened if I'd tried to pursue my dream. I have John, his love, and his support.

So here I am. I'll practice. I'm working up the courage. I'll give it my all. And we'll see what happens.

--

Almost every night, I have ridiculously vivid, strangely violent, horrific dreams. Two nights ago, the first night back here in our apartment after our trip (and oh, I can hardly tell you how good our bed and pillows felt!), I dreamed:

I am having a normal off-work day, putzing around the house, when I feel something brushing my left elbow. I look down, and there it is, like a tiny transparent hot air balloon, tethered to the outside of my elbow. It has the look and consistency of a blister, but in an inverted teardrop-shape, waving gently in the breeze, and a bit bigger than my thumbnail. My arm itches, and I reach to scratch, but even as my fingernails graze my arm, my heart catches in my throat, and I stare, horrified, for along the three pink tracks my fingernails just brushed, sprout more miniature balloons. Starting out tiny, like the seed of a tomato, then growing rapidly, noticably, until they are all the size of the first. I panic, fear and horror welling in my throat, and as I turn to get help, I notice more of these tiny blister-balloons tethered to other parts of my body. If I bump into anything, more of these balloons appear; if something even lightly touches my body, they spring into existence.

I wake up with panic filling my throat and mind, and hold my left arm up close to my face so that my glasses-less eyes can inspect and, by the weak beams of the night-light, ensure that my arms aren't, actually, covered with miniature balloons.