La Vida es Dura

I have been so worn out that after arriving at my mother’s house yesterday I nearly turned down a soak in her new outdoor hot tube on account of my foolish belief that I could carry my body no further than the couch. Christmas and New Years has for the most part been a blur. I have been working nearly every day and any time off has been spent playing catch up with menial chores such as laundry, cleaning up after my Blue Christmas Party, and with more essential tasks such as showering and sleeping. The truth of the matter is that I am always overwhelmed when I first arrive at her house weary from the trenches of my hurried urban life. From the instant I close the front door I am bombarded with jars of freshly baked gingerbread, butter cookies, and chocolates from the very near by Lucky Chocolates (more about these wonderful chocolates later). It is a sensory over load that always leaves me bewildered and mystified, besieged and bedazzled and, with the faint crackle of the wood stove and Alma (my mother’s husky) sleeping at my feet it is impossible not to surrender. In my underwear I stumbled with her the hundred yards in chilly winter darkness and plopped gracelessly into the torrid water boisterous with bubbles. Rings of steam swirled around us like rising spirits while gusts of wind assaulted huddles of indelible trees, their only protest, the sound of their naked branches clapping . I gave in, ate the gingerbread, and the chocolates, and that night I slept like a baby.