I can see me not seeing the foot of snow

As someone with terrible natural eyesight, the world I take in without my glasses is a distorted and blurry one.  Solid lines bleed in and fade from the edges of objects, light and darkness become the only truly discernable 'shape' my eyes can lock onto.  The giant orange numbers of our alarm clock become nothing more than a drop of watercolor on a sheet of parchment paper.

As I crawled out of bed today, the first thing I did (the first thing I do everyday) is go for my glasses.  Seconds before putting them on I 'looked' out the window.  White, lots of piercing white.  Movement, reminiscent of channel 3 static on an old analog television.

I could see the foot of snow that had fallen overnight, even though I could not see even the window.

Block Party

Calling around and attempting to reserve a block of hotel rooms for our wedding has been an odd endeavor so far.  What I need and am asking for has been met with the same answer from all hotels contacted so far.  It is similar to this made up scenario where I try and order something from a restaurant:

Me: "Hello, can I please have a salad and a steak?"

Restaurant: "Salads and steaks aren't available in the summer time, we do however offer root canals and canoe rentals, would you like fifteen of each?"

What I'm After

I think what I'm really after in life, though I'm not sure exactly what it is, is what a cat finds in that warm patch of sunlight on the carpet.

- R.B.

"Deeply Do I Mourn for My Friends Are Nothing Worth"

Throw it in

I always feel obligated to throw in the towel on any errands the day has in store (today it was getting my haircut) if for some reason or another I don't get out of bed before 8:30 am (11:15 am today, ouch).

Yep, throwin' it in.

Daewoo

At six feet and two inches, I'm not the smallest guy I know.  I drive a 2001 Daewoo Nubira, which is the smallest car I know.

Quite the sight to behold then, is me trying to thread my long legs over the center console entering from the rear passenger door because all others have been frozen shut.

Salt Hands (revisited)

I have the hands of a 79 year old salt miner.  If you've ever seen my hands up close in detail, you would understand.  My digits are long and slender.  Each tiny wrinkle dry as a mummy's cough as they zigzag the surface of my hand.  I imagine the veins and capillaries within rattling like the pipes of an old house as they struggle to carry what little blood they can to my cells, cells that flake like the old home's century old paint.  All of the fingers on both of my hands are double jointed, which give them an arthritic and stiff posture.   They crack as I work, and the pinky on my left hand will frequently slip in and out of its socket with a jerkiness that resembles a dead girl from Japanese horror films.  My cuticles are constantly peeling back from the nail, exacerbated by me biting at the hangings.  When I clench my fists, the tendons that run the back of my hand through the fingers stand out stark through the paper thin skin against my tight knuckles.  You can see them pop left and right to either side, unsure of where they want to be.  Burns from the oven I work with scatter my fingers and palms, calluses and old blisters live on the inside of my hand.  The worst though, are the miniature Death Vallies that sit in between my fingers.  The skin there is so dry it feels like a shark's.  No amount of lotion will remedy them, no shower scrubber will make the old new.  I've convinced myself that the skin here is in as bad of condition as human skin will get.  Bleach rags and the dry cold Montana winter are easy to blame for this condition, but I know better than that.

Yes, I have the hands of a 79 year old salt miner.

'Where'd you get that...'

Nothing begs to ask a question but never will like a woman with a black eye.