In the mailbox

A February rain is much colder than snow, and twice as miserable. The hems of my jeans were soaked by late afternoon because I’ve just never learned how to avoid puddles. As I lugged a stack of student portfolios into my office — ah, yes, papers to grade — I noticed a parcel in my mailbox.

Yes, really a parcel! It was an unexpected gift from Charming Canadian Professor Who Reads a Lot. And who, I might add, lives almost 3,000 miles away from me.

Twitter messages are nice. So are text messages and email. And phone calls and skype. But it was just lovely to open a package. My friend bought the book, asked the author to sign it for me, took out pen and paper, and wrote a note to put in the book. The book traveled across the border that runs between our countries, over the Rocky Mountains, across the Midwest, into Snowstorm Region, and finally into my hands.

Despite the stack of papers just begging to be graded, I opened the book and began reading right away. There are some things I just can’t resist: a new book is one of them. He’d send me Charlotte Gills’ Eating Dirt, the memoir of a tree-planter. Have you ever seen those big tree plantations in the Pacific Northwest and wondered who plants all those trees? This book tells the story. I read the first three chapters, totally hooked, before I had the self-discipline to turn back to the stacks of papers I was supposed to be grading.

My friend's note included the instructions that I wasn’t to reciprocate, but instead send a surprise gift to someone else. “Keep the karma moving,” he told me when I thanked him on twitter. I love the idea of choosing a book and just mailing it to a friend out of the blue, with no reason other than reminding her that a shared love of reading can make even the most miserable February day feel like spring.

Hot women

When my Wild Women friends get together, I’m usually the firekeeper, and I take that job seriously, adding logs to the fire every time the flames burn down to coals. At last weekend’s Stone Soup party, I kept the fire burning. Soon the room, filled with women talking and eating, was toasty warm.

I don’t know if it was the warmth from the fire or the intimacy of the conversation or the fact that probably half the women in the room are somewhere around menopause, but it wasn’t long before women were taking off their clothes.

Dark-haired Woman was the first to strip off her sweater. “I’m hot,” she announced, by way of explanation.

“Yeah, baby, you’re hot,” Long Beautiful Hair said.

Dark-haired Woman laughed. “Of course, it might just be a hot flash.”

“Hot flashes are way sexy,” someone else called out. “All those waves of warm erotic energy pulsing through your body—”

“You taking off your clothes?” asked Quilt Artist in a practical voice. She looked over from the kitchen area, where she’d just ladled soup into a bowl. “The light’s just right for a naked photo.”

I hadn’t intended to take any naked photos at the potluck. Honestly. Contrary to what some of my blog readers think, I don’t spend most of my time at social events trying to get folks naked. But the situation was perfect: a beautiful woman taking off her clothes, diffuse winter light shining from the window, and a roomful of women who are so used to my camera that the flow of conversation didn’t even pause as Dark Hair obliging took off the rest of her clothes.

“No group naked shot?” asked Denim Woman teasingly. “We aren’t going to recreate the famous white butt shot?”

“No group shots,” I said firmly. “I think the individual photos are more empowering.” I meant that, actually. The group shots are fun and often silly, but there's something special about the individual photos. Often when I show a woman a naked photo of herself, the first thing she says is, “Wow. I didn’t realize I looked that good.”

So often women don’t know how beautiful they are. The point of these photos is to let them see it for themselves.

If you don't know the history of the naked photo tradition, you can check it out here. Or go look at the gallery of photos.

February potluck

Fifteen of us gathered yesterday, mostly women who have been friends for several decades. The plan was to make stone soup: we’d each contribute a vegetable, or perhaps some beans or rice, and toss them into the crockpot that was already simmering. But of course, this group of women is never content with just one pot of soup. We ended up with a whole counter filled with food: veggies and humus, several salads, five types of bread, hot bean soup, some kind of stew, and desserts, of course. We can’t get together without chocolate: it’s a rule.

During the early afternoon, we all talked like crazy, cooking and preparing food as we talked, catching up on news. “I caved and bought a puppy,” Dark-haired Woman announced as she arrived. She had photos, of course, on her phone. Gorgeous Eyes brought her sister, who was visiting from out of town. Signing Woman had just returned from an out-of-town trip, so we heard news about her mother. That’s always the first part of catching up: hearing details about siblings, spouses, parents, and kids.

Eight hours later, bellies filled with food, we lounged by the fire, no one wanting to leave. Long Beautiful Hair stretched out on the couch. Some of us piled on with her and some of us sat on the floor. We were still all talking, of course, but at a slower pace. The food and warmth had made us relaxed and sleepy. Sometimes we’d even have a lull long enough to hear the fire crackle.

“I wish we had a whole weekend,” Denim Woman said. We all nodded in agreement. But still, a whole day of friendship and food in the middle of February is something we treasure. It’s enough to get us through.

In the sauna

My feet are cold from about October to March. Even when I’m doing something like cross-country skiing, and my clothes are soaked with sweat and I’ve taken my hat off because I’m warm, my feet feel like I’ve got frozen peas shoved between my toes. None of that glow that comes from exercise makes it past my ankles. When I’m snowboarding, which requires wearing boots that fit very tightly, my feet can get so cold that it’s painful.

That’s why I love the sauna.

It’s just a small room lined with wood and the traditional wood-and-glass door tucked into the women’s locker room. Often I’m alone in there, and I just sit quietly, letting my muscles absorb all the heat. I’ll stretch my bare legs out and wriggle my toes, savoring the warmth. Sometimes another woman will come in, and we’ll exchange a smile, but the space feels meditative, so I don’t talk unless she says something first.

The other night, though, when I entered the sauna, I could hear laughter and chatter. As I shut the door behind me, I could see six young women draped on the wooden benches. “It’s a party,” Curly Hair said. She grinned and moved over to make room for me.

Once I sat down, all heads turned towards Frizzy Ponytail. She started to say something, then hesitated. “Tell us,” prodded the woman next to her. I looked at her and smiled, with just the slightest of nods, the way I do when I’m trying to get a shy student in class to speak up.

She launched into a hilarious story about a Valentine’s Day date that went horribly wrong. Curly Hair countered with an anecdote about a passive aggressive man she’d been dating. “Know how he broke up with me? He posted a picture of his new girlfriend on facebook.”

Each anecdote was met with exclamations, indignation, and then laughter from the rest of the women. They chimed in excitedly, gesturing with their arms, drops of water beading up on their bare skin as they talked, any residual hurt and sadness behind the stories gradually dissolving in the warmth.

Blue-green waters

Cartwheels turn to car wheels

My sons have always been the most talkative late at night, just as I'm about to go to sleep. Shaggy Hair Boy will come into our bedroom just as my husband and I are climbing into bed. "Hey, Mom, want to read over the essay I'm writing? It's due tomorrow."

Boy in Black, who is so nocturnal that he often goes to bed just as I'm waking up, will look at me at midnight, just as I'm about to drag my tired self upstairs, and say, "Hey, want to see this youtube clip?"

So it's not surprising that With-a-Why, my youngest son, came into the bathroom to talk to me last night while I was brushing my teeth. Clearly, the best time to talk to Mom is when she's half asleep and has a mouth full of suds.

But it did shock me when I looked up and caught sight of our images, reflected in the bathroom mirror. I had just spit out the toothpaste and straightened up, automatically smiling at the mirror as I did so. With-a-Why, standing behind me, grinned at the mirror too. Over the top of my head.

That’s right. My youngest son, my baby, is a head taller than me. When did that happen?

The little girl who used to sit in my lap and cry

It’s been months since I’ve seen Ponytail, the little girl who used to live down the street from me. About once a week, I pick her brother up from the apartment where he lives with his mother. But Ponytail was sent off to live her father in another town, and I have no way of contacting her.

Her father is the man who attacked the family in a drunken rage one cold April night. That’s the night that Little Biker Boy rode over to my house in his boxer shorts screaming for help. That night, I called 911 and cops came, and they had to taser the man before they could get him into a patrol car.

Little Biker Boy doesn’t see his sister very often any more, but we talk about her. The two kids were always together when they lived down the road from me, riding bikes or playing in the ditches, and I know he misses her.

Today is her eighth birthday.

Little Biker Boy called me this morning. He has my phone number memorized, and he calls whenever he can take someone’s cell phone. I could tell from the background noise that he wasn’t at his mother’s apartment. He told me he was going to see Ponytail, that someone was going to take him over for a birthday party.

“I asked if you could come, but no, they said you can’t,” he said.

“Give her a hug for me,” I said. “Teach her my phone number. She’s old enough.”

“I think she’s learned the first part,” he said. “She almost knows it.”

Someone in the background yelled at him. “I have to go,” he said quickly, and hung up. Our calls usually end when someone discovers their cell phone missing.

It’s Ponytail’s birthday. Wherever she is, I’m thinking about her today.

Except for the cat pee

So far, February has been a good month. My calendar is filled with the star stickers I’ve been giving myself for self-care. I’ve given myself a sticker every time I practiced the piano, or read for pleasure, or worked out at the gym. I’ve gotten stickers for outdoor walks, for working on a writing project, and for skyping with a friend. Of course, the bizarrely mild weather has helped. It doesn’t seem like February. I haven’t had to shovel the driveway or brush off my car. Usually by this time of the winter, I’m sick of the snow and cold, but this year, we’ve had so little that I would welcome a snowstorm.

I’m happier this year, but the cats of the household are still going through the February blues. Even during a warm winter, it’s really too cold outside for them, and so they are crowded into the house all day long, hissing and fighting over territory. I wouldn’t mind the hissing if they’d just learn to keep their bodily fluids to themselves.

The latest cat pee incident happened the other night, just as we were all leaving to go to the gym. My husband went out to warm up the car while I ran upstairs to get my coat, which I had left on the bed. I rushed in, grabbed the coat, and began putting it on while shoving my feet into boots, automatic motions I do without even thinking. Just as I began pulling the coat over my arms, a strong stench hit my nose. Far too late, my mind registered the image of a shimmering liquid puddled into the hood of my coat, warm yellow liquid that splashed into my hair, down my neck, onto my shirt and jeans.

Maybe I need to get the cats some behavior modification charts. And give them stars for using the damned litter box instead of my coat.

February evening

Our living room is messy, filled with books and papers and laptop computers. It’s the fourth week of the semester, which means we’re all busy. Piano music is piled on top of Shaggy Hair Boy’s laptop. My husband has a yellow legal pad at his side, a long to-do list filling the whole first page.

Boy in Black, stripped down to a pair of black shorts, is taking up the only available floor space: he’s doing push-ups. With-a-Why is flipping through the graphic novel he wrote for a school project. The room smells like homemade applesauce. It’s not the season for applesauce, but I wanted to send food over to a friend who is going through chemotherapy, and applesauce is something she can eat. Boy in Black’s phone is playing “One More Cup of Coffee.”

Shaggy Hair Boy arrives, carrying two tins of homemade cookies. He’s been to his grandparents’ house. “Here you go,” he says, handing one of the tins to Boy in Black. “That one’s for the apartment.” Then he opens the other tin, and we all grab some of my mother’s delicious cookies.

Would teach my feet to fly