||[Dec. 17th, 2006|09:17 am]
Last night my kitty sprawled out on my stomach, all four legs in the air, and the two of us dozed. Even though this kept me pinned to the couch and I woke up at 5am with a crick in my neck -- so worth it.
I love Christmas. I love the tacky exhuberance it takes to decorate one's house with a life-size light-up santa and eight plastic raindeer.
I love Christmas carols well beyond the point where most people's eyes glaze over and WG begs me to play something, please, anything else. (Yes, I'm Buddhist. Yes, I'll sing 'O Come All Ye Faithful' without one drop of irony.)
I love Christmas shopping, or rather, what I call Christmas buying, because I go into the mall like a commando on a mission and emerge 20 minutes later with what I came for or empty-handed.
I love the noise and the chaos and the third-world press of people. I love the bell-ringing and dropping change in the Salvation Army buckets (where are those guys this year?).
I love the crinkle of wrapping paper and designing yet another bow.
I love swearing like a sailor as I try to string the lights on the Christmas tree and have a whole strand go out on me after it's threaded through the branches.
I love lining up the Christmas cards and hiding the ugly ones in the back.
I hate visiting family and company Christmas parties, smiling so hard my face might crack -- I hate parties and I'd rather watch it all from behind a cup of hot cocoa. But in the balance, Christmas is good.
I love the 3am sigh of exhausted satisfaction on December 24th as I finally have it all done.
Finally, I love the latest part to sheafrotherdon's "Farm In Iowa" series. When you read it, you'll understand. I'll get you the link in a moment -- there you are:
Near the Earth, to Touch. John/Rodney, Farm In Iowa, AU NC-17. sheafrotherdon
Disaster, real-kids that have melt-downs and fling boogers, Christmas, wonder that goes beyond Christmas, and a world so ordinary you want to sink into it like your favorite chair. How I love this John and Rodney. gaiaanarchy said that sheafrotherdon writes wonderfully pointless and tangental John/Rodney arguments and I heartily agree. This story is like a cup of hot cocoa on a cold winter night: it's simple, yet everything you could want for Christmas.
I forgot the snippet, didn't I? Here you go:
It takes him a while to remember he has a cell phone in his pocket, product of Rodney's insistence that exactly this sort of thing was bound to happen someday. He flips it open, finds he has a signal, and mumbles something profane and thankful as he hits the speed-dial for home.
"Hey, Rodney." His voice is surprisingly steady, he reckons.
"Oh god, what did you do? Are you in jail? You're in jail aren't you?"
Or maybe not. "Of course I'm not in jail." He rubs the heel of his hand against his aching forehead – blinks, surprised, when it comes away covered in blood.
"That is such code for 'I'm in jail'," Rodney protests.
"I'm not in jail!" John replies, rummaging in his pockets, voice rising despite the fact that he knows it's going to make his head hurt more.
"Then where are you?"
John squints into the distance. "By the side of the road 'bout halfway between the Brennemans' and Jackson Avenue," he offers.
There's silence on the other end of the phone. "And you're what, calling to tell me you've decided to sell your body on the least populated street in America?" Rodney asks.
"Kinda had an accident."
"Accident?" Rodney's voice ratchets up a degree or two. "What kind of accident?"
"Hit a deer."
"Oh my god."
ETA: wildernessguru left a note on the cookie batter this morning, "Keep your paws off." With child-like kitty picture and fluffy rendering of Monte's tail. Appropos to nothing, I'm just amused.