One of my least favorite meals growing up was stuffed cabbage rolls. Hated them. In fact, anything with cabbage in it was on my “no thank you” list. It didn’t take my Mom long to realize this fact. Eventually, rather than make my sister and I eat the “cabbage package” of the stuffed cabbage roll, she would lovingly shape only the filling into little rectangles for us so that we could avoid the cabbage.

Another one of my mom’s favorites was boiled ham and cabbage. Doesn’t that sound completely horrendous? Nothing about the name even sells it. Boiled. Ham. Cabbage. Maybe if she gave it a clever name I would’ve liked it better. The one and only time I ever found myself sitting at the table until I finished my dinner was on a boiled ham and cabbage night. It was a very lonely night at the dinner table.

You can imagine my surprise when I immediately started drooling upon seeing Rose’s recipe for Healthy Pigs In A Blanket (a.k.a Stuffed Cabbage Rolls). I get it. I’m extremely food-impressionable at the moment considering my current hormonal state. However, while reading the recipe, I honestly couldn’t believe that I was getting excited about a stuffed vegetable.

[although...stuffed mushrooms...mmm...those are good...]

What initially attracted me to this recipe was the fact that Rose used Swiss chard rather than cabbage. I don’t so much hate cabbage anymore, but it does still seem a little boring and blah-ish. I planned to stick to the recipe on this one and use Swiss chard and ground turkey.

However. The only grocery store that I felt like stopping by after work is kind of ‘inside the box’ when it comes to vegetables, so Swiss chard was not an option. Again considering my hormonal state, I decided I wasn’t driving across town to go to the natural market. I opted for cabbage instead.

You win, Mom.

I had also planned to make these on Tuesday evening while I was cooking Tuesday’s dinner [Shake -N- Bake chicken breasts, fried potatoes, and corn...in case you were wondering like I would've been...considering my current hormonal state], but I just ran out of energy. Rather than getting all of the completed rolls nestled into my CrockPot for the night, I ended up only cooking the rice and mixing up the filling, and that was all I had in me.

Last night, prior to going mall-walking (clearly another story for another day), I slapped together all of the cabbage rolls, put them in a baking dish, and baked them at 300 degrees for about 90 minutes while I was mall-walking.

Yes, I’ve gone from marathoner/triathlete to pregnant mall-walker. But I’m not ready…we’ll have to talk about it later.

When I came home from walking, the house smelled amazing. And I drooled.

I wasn’t sure if My Gazelle was going to like stuffed cabbage rolls, so I also sauteed some turkey kielbasa with Fuji apple slices for him…just in case cabbage was also on his “no thank you” list. It turns out that he liked both the cabbage rolls and the kielbasa, so that’s a win/win for the wife.

Although, he did ask for “more ground turkey” next time. Noted.

The great part about this recipe is that I had enough filling and cabbage leaves left over to be able to put together an entire second pan of rolls. I constructed all of the rolls, put them in a disposable baking tin, poured the sauce on top, popped the tin into a Ziploc bag, and now it’s in the freezer. Perfect solution for any future night in which I have another hankering for stuffed cabbage rolls.

Which is very likely, considering my current hormonal state.

Stuffed Cabbage Rolls (a.k.a. Pigs In A Blanket)

[Printable Recipe]

• 1.5-2 lb. ground turkey (or, cannellini beans would be a good veggie substitute)
• 1.5 cups of cooked rice
• 1T Basil
• 1-2 cloves garlic (or 1T garlic powder if you don’t have fresh)
• 1 small onion, chopped (or 1T onion powder if you don’t have fresh)
• Salt & pepper (to taste)
• 1 T Worcestershire sauce
• 20 cabbage leaves (or, swiss chard, purple cabbage, etc.)
• 2 small cans of tomato sauce (I used the ‘basil & garlic’ variety)
• 1 small can of tomato paste
• 2 cups water

1) Cook rice using slightly less water than normal (you’re going to be baking the cooked rice, so you don’t want it to start off soggy).

2) Mix together the cooked rice, ground turkey, basil, garlic, onion, salt & pepper, and Worcestershire sauce and set aside or refrigerate until needed.

3) Boil a large pot of water. Cut off the bottom “stem” of the cabbage, and place the head of cabbage in the water until the leaves begin to soften and come away from the head. As they peel off, set them aside. This took me about 10 minutes to get all of the leaves off (without ripping them).

4) To assemble the rolls, place a small amount of filling in the center of each cabbage leaf, then fold the sides around the filling to make a little “cabbage package”. Here’s a good video that explains how to do it: Cabbage Stuffing Video. If you watch the second video, she also explains that you can put the cabbage in the freezer overnight rather than boiling it. Interesting…maybe next time.

5) Place the tomato sauce, tomato paste, and water into a blender and combine all together (you can also do this by hand, but I’m lazy). Pour a small amount in the bottom of a 9″ x 13″ baking pan, then begin laying your completed cabbage rolls on top. This keeps the rolls from sticking to the pan.

6) After placing all of the rolls into the pan, cover them generously with the remaining tomato sauce.

7) Cover with foil, and bake rolls until the cabbage is very tender and the sauce is bubbling. For me, this was approximately 90 minutes in a 300 degree oven. Alternatively, you could bake at 375 degrees for 30 minutes.

My Mom always served this with mashed potatoes, and the tomato sauce is so yummy on the potatoes. You can also serve this with pierogies, kielbasa, or a simple green salad and buttered rye bread.

Delicious!

What was your LEAST favorite meal that your parents made you as a child?

If you aren’t in the mood to read some thoughts directly from the caverns of my cobwebby mind, you must skip this post.  I’ve been feeling especially introspective lately, pondering past, present, and future, and this is just something I’ve been thinking about.  I’ve already discussed my fears of being pregnant, but the truth is that I really look forward to motherhood.

However, the notion of having a daughter of my own someday is both exhilarating and terrifying at the same time.  Having been through so many of the standard issues that affect teen girls, it’s a little daunting.

If you have children of your own, would you be so kind as to add some words of wisdom on child rearing in the comments?  How do you raise a child to be strong, confident, humble, hardworking, honest and self-assured?  I know that we can’t have it all, but can we come close?

**********

If I ever give birth to a daughter, I hope that she is just like I was as a child.

Well…a little less whiny, preferably.

And a little more athletic.

And probably a little more tan, or our relatives will question her paternity (and the Montell show is just not really my thing).

I want to have the opportunity to take that little girl, the one who is like me (more tan, less whiny)…

…and teach her how to love all of the parts of herself that she somehow forgot (or never even knew) were beautiful.

Her naturally curly hair.  Momma didn’t really know what to do with it, but it was always beautiful.

The way that she giggled at everything, and could only make herself stop giggling if she thought of something tragically sad.

Her chubby little nubby legs.

The fact that for many years, any problem in her world (ANY) could be solved with either a) her favorite skinny, deliciously 1980′s shiny gold belt, or b) a bowl of her Grandma’s vanilla Schwann’s ice cream with old-fashioned (read: tin can, heated in a pan with boiling water) Hershey’s hot fudge.

This one.

Those tiny little ears that she thought were the cutest part of her whole body for many years.

That beautiful, pointy-ended nose that she inherited directly from HER father, and he inherited it from HIS father, and so on.  That nose caused her a lot of heartache, especially when she saw it in pictures, but there is no mistaking the fact that that nose carries a family legacy, and it is beautiful.

The fact that she played with My Little Ponies, Barbies, Popples, and Cabbage Patch Kids until she was approximately 14 years old, and was in love with a certain boy band (rhymes with “Few Lids On The Flock”)  until she was well into her late teens.

[OK, I lie.  She still loves them.]

The way that she always wanted to grocery shop with her mom, and the fact that she always had to pee as soon as they entered any store.  Like clockwork.  Never failed.

Her sensitivity.  She was [is] insanely sensitive, and felt everything to the core.  She sensed people’s feelings without hearing their words, and she cried when they cried.  She just wanted everyone to get along.  She caused her fair share of conflict, but at the core, she was just a peacekeeper.

I understand that I can’t do it over.  I can’t heal my own childhood woes by projecting onto my own future daughter, but at least if she was like me, I would know how to talk to her and tell her that she’s beautiful.  Even when she doesn’t think that she is.

I’d know how to reassure her that sticking to her own beliefs and knowing in her soul that she is worthy of love and respect is a right, not a privilege.

We’d giggle together.  Sometimes we’d eat ice cream with old fashioned Hershey’s syrup.

But she better not be whiny.

I don’t belong here.

I sort of belong here…

…But I know deep down in my heart that the place where I really belong…really REALLY belong is here…

My hometown.

My trees, my grass, and my curvy creek (say “crick”).

That creek–where I would trek to every day during the summer, following the deer path along the stream until I heard the rushing of the water.  When I was sad, I’d cry on the bank of that creek.  Sometimes, I’d sit on a log that fell into the water–listening, thinking and crying.  Wondering how to fit together all of the pieces of my life that made no sense to me at the time.

Filled with so much teenage angst that I wished that I could just drown myself in that curvy creek, but I wasn’t angsty enough to figure out how.

I still get butterflies in my stomach when I think about it.  The way that the air was clean and crisp, and how the bed of pine needles felt so prickly and familiar on my skin when I sat next to my creek.

The warmth, security, and the comfort of that place.  It was my safe place.  The place where many years later, in therapy, I would visit time and again when I found myself someplace scary and unstable in my journey.  I’d lay there, in my mind, and remember all of the things that made me love that spot next to the creek.

Sometimes I’d even walk there in 2 feet of snow, with no regard for frostbite.  Limbs and digits be damned; that feeling was just more important.

I need it.  I just can’t recreate it–that feeling.

I’ve tried.  An overpriced house on the water.  Trips to the ocean.  A local reservoir.  A man-made lake.  They just don’t come close.  They’re too commercial, too dense, too foreign.  They don’t even smell right, and the air isn’t the same.  They’re just not my creek.

I can’t sit by my creek anymore the way that I used to.  Sure, I can travel to my parents house–they haven’t gone anywhere.  However, the land all around my creek has now been sold, and I fear that I might get shot if I trespass, or be mistaken for a deer during hunting season (this is in the country, after all).

In all honesty, I miss most things about “home”, not just my creek.  Part of my soul lives there without me.  My family keeps it safe, and I can go back to visit it whenever I want to.  As I get older, I become more and more aware of this missing part of my soul.  So far away from it.  I miss it.  I’d like to have it back someday.

For now, I’ll just have to visit it when I can.

]]> http://www.joggerslife.com/2010/thursday-morning-confession-3/feed/ 4 http://www.joggerslife.com/2010/thursday-morning-confession/ http://www.joggerslife.com/2010/thursday-morning-confession/#comments Thu, 27 May 2010 14:00:09 +0000 http://www.joggerslife.com/?p=3282

There’s something I need to tell you.  Those who know me in real life are already privy to this information, but I haven’t officially told YOU yet.  It’s been bothering me for some time.  I can’t believe that I held this from you, but I’m ready to come clean.  I just can’t take it anymore.

I LOVE THEM.

I loved them then.

I love them now.

Some things just don’t change.  I’m no exception here.  I know that millions of 30-something women are still in love with NKOTB as if they are still their 13-year-old selves.  To me, that’s what makes the whole experience even better (a million years later).  We are all still holding on to something that we loved as teenagers, and you can’t say that about many things in your life.

As we grow up, we leave things behind.  Without being overly philosophical about a boy band, let me just say that I think it’s pretty cool that I can revisit a part of my childhood that I look back on so fondly.  I remember plastering my walls with posters of the boys, and watching my VHS tapes of their concerts so many times that the tapes stopped working.

My girlfriends and I memorized all of their dance moves, and we waited impatiently for their video premieres on MTV while on 3-way calls with each other. Some of us even got in serious trouble for dialing a 1-900 number incessantly just to hear their voices on a recording (**cough**ME!**cough).

My friends and I plotted ways that we could run away from home and live on the streets of Boston, just to be closer to them.  I blame that plot on hormone-induced insanity.

I had NKOTB buttons, t-shirts, magazines, autographed pictures (that I bought from magazine ads).  I had sheet sets, stickers, and even dolls.  The one thing that I never had: concert tickets.  My 13-year-old self NEEDED concert tickets, even if they were in the nosebleed section.  But, it just wasn’t in the cards for me.

And now, in my 30′s, I’m living like I wanted to when I was 13.  In a slightly different body, with slightly more resources, and with a slightly altered vision of the world.  So, I’m doing what any rational 30-something would do.

Beginning today at noon, I’m spending the weekend immersed in all things NKOTB.  My girlfriend and I have deemed it our  “NKOTB Bender Weekend”.  I’m driving to Atlantic City to see two NKOTB shows.  One show will also include a pre-party where we’ll meet the guys, and then there will be an after-show party (fingers crossed that this party will include the boys from Beantown) .  I’m going to try not to die of heart failure this weekend. In my old age, it’s kind of touch and go.

I’m so  thankful and grateful, and I feel so lucky that I am able to do something like this.

But it would’ve been much cheaper if I’d done it when I was 13.

Sidebar: Truthfully, my main objective this weekend is to have more fun that I’ve ever had while also maintaining my workout schedule. Not even NKOTB can keep me from training…and that’s serious.

So here’s the deal.  This has nothing to do with running, biking, or swimming.  Prepare yourself.

I went to the doctor’s yesterday.  It was my yearly ‘chick check-up’.  No biggie.  I was excited to talk to my doctor about my recent engagement, our decision for me to stop taking birth control, and all of the fun wedding plans that we have in the works.  Since I only see her once a year, there was a lot of catching up to do.  I showed her my NFP charts, and she said that everything looks good.

…hooray!…

However.

Just before the wonderful bill of health and her fervent, “WELL, it sure looks like you’ll know when and how to get pregnant!”…

I was weighed.

On that damn Godforsaken doctor’s office (((clink, clink, clink….slide slide slide…clink…whirrrrrr))) scale.  I hate it.  I’ve always hated it.  It takes me back to those bitchass group physicals that we had in 7th and 8th grade gym class.  All of us wearing our paper gowns together, waiting to be weighed on that bitchass scale.  In front of everyone else.  And, we were thisclose to each other in the tiny locker room, so everyone could see everyone else’s weight.

p.s…I might have had a few therapy sessions that revolved around this experience.  I know…shocker.

In any case, I was weighed.

I didn’t really know how much I weighed up until this point because I never weigh myself.  I do know, however, that the way I looked last year around this time…

Now that's a terrible picture.

Is not the same as I look this year…

I mean, this is no crazy drastic change or anything, but let’s just say that the winter of 2008 was hard on your girl.  I was a little ‘xtra in the middle’.  My clothes fit much better this year.

Since I don’t own a scale, I really couldn’t tell you how much I weighed last March in the first picture.  However, right now, since I got on that bitchass doctor’s scale, I know that I weigh 164 pounds.  This number itself doesn’t really phase me.  I’ve been 180 pounds.  I’ve been 158 pounds.  I’ve been 172 pounds.  I’ve even been 145 pounds.  I’m still THIS GIRL no matter what the scale tells me.

What worries me?

The idea that pregnancy will likely cause me to gain 30 pounds (I’m being modest here…I know that first time moms go batsh!t crazy).  If I gain 30 pounds right now, I will weigh about 200 pounds when I deliver my bouncing little bundle of joy.

Oh, my back.

AHHH, my knees!

Oh, my aching PANCREAS!

And will I be able to keep up with the new mom schedule if my body is not at it’s best?  And what will my recovery be like if I’m at an uncomfortable weight?

I can’t do it, people.  I just can’t do that to my body.  I was not made to lug around 200 pounds of weight, regardless of what point I’m at in life.  Pregnancy or not, I’m not equipped for it.  My knees will not have it.  My mother has diabetes, which she developed later in life (post pregnancy #2).  I don’t want that for myself (or my future husband and children).

I’m taking a stand, and it has nothing to do with body image or pressure to be thin or anything of that sort.  I have to do it for myself.  Because it make sense for me.  Nothing crazy, but I’m going to give myself an ‘intuitive eating tune-up’…stay tuned.

Last Friday, after my boss made me cry, I went on a trip.

I was gone for 4 long days.

Unfortunately, the days were not nearly long enough.

My hiatus has been fun.

It began with this…

(p.s…please love me even though this post contains a mixture of poor quality iPhone pictures. Sometimes I can’t carry my big girl camera).

At which time I learned that not only is my little brother a great guitar player, manipulator and con man, but he can also sing and play the bass. How is it possible for a boy to be so genius, yet so dumb? All at the same time.

Shortly after this picture was taken, I met a man.

I decided to call him Norman No Neck. I don’t know what his name was. Norman No Neck just seemed to suit him.

Norman periodically talked to My Sista and I throughout the night, filling our ears with anecdotes and one-liners. He really talked like he had no neck. Labored talking. Very labored. He was wearing a skin tight t-shirt with a scowling, drooling wolf on it. I decided that a combination of the tight t-shirt and the angry wolf were making it hard for him to talk.

I spent approximately 30 minutes of my evening laughing hysterically, while trying to figure out what the hell Norman No Neck had just said to me.

Something about Catsup. I think.

Saturday morning, bright and early (7:15), My Sista and I met my cousin, Cassie for a group run with this group and this group. Everyone was combined into a pack of approximately 75 runners for a development run. We covered the first 6 miles of The Boilermaker 15K course (my July race). I was simultaneously horrified and elated that Cassie (who is super, way, much faster than me) ran the last 3 miles with me, and My Sista ran about the last 2 with us. It felt like a family bonding session.

We come from a long line of smokers, drinkers, and cancer-sufferers (not cancer-survivors). Call me overly dramatic, but it felt like that run symbolized the fact that the three of us are breaking that horrific cycle.

With their support and help, I was able to run my fastest long run ever. I was so happy!!

So, maybe my fast is your slow…but, that’s why I’m a Jogger.

Jogger for life baby.

JFL.

That said, I can tell you that I love My Sista more now and feel closer to her than I ever have. Although we live so far apart, we are sharing these experiences and training together. She’s helping me out immensely, and her experience is helping me to improve.

There was eating at Mom’s.

Eating at Grandma’s.

Much more eating at both of those locations than I care to really elaborate on. You can check out my food logs for more info on that escapade.

Sunday morning I had to leave.

But first, I needed to spend an hour taking pictures of my Mom’s fish pond and the surrounding vegetation. What can I say, I’m a little obsessed. I have a spice garden. That’s all. I’m feeling a little void of vegetation in my life.

It began with Maddie and I.

Then just Maddie.

“Maddie, look over HERE!”

My Mom, Dad and Sista were also hanging around at that time.

Slowly, I noticed that everyone took off. Apparently they got tired of watching me take pictures.  And then, it was just me and my camera.

And vegetation. Lots and lots of vegetation.

And fish.

I bought these fish for my Mother at Walmart 3 years ago on Mother’s Day. I threw them in her baron pond, unbeknownst to her. Then I tried to pretend that the fish fairy just magically dropped them into her pond. I fully expected that all of the fish would die within 24 hours.

Miraculously, 3 of the the 5 fish have survived, and one even survived a near live-burial. He swims really funny though. I guess that’s what happens when you fall 12 stories (in fish terms) to a concrete floor, then suffer without oxygen for an indeterminable amount of time.  I try to give little Nemo a break though–he’s had a rough life to date

Nemo is the stubby little orange guy on the right.

He is also the fish that Maddie likes to catch with her fishing net.  He’s the easiest target apparently.

Poor Nemo.

And flowers. Flowers for days. Oh, how I love my Mom’s flowers!

Oh, flowers.

Flowers and fish. Even better.

This fish is like 13″ long. It’s amazing. If that’s not an advertisement for Walmart Koi fish, I don’t know what is.

When I showed Mom the next picture, she said “that flower is in MY garden?” See. She takes her flowers for granted. Ingrate.

I’ll trade in her fish pond for a kitchen spice garden, and then see if she remembers the types of flowers in her garden!

I loved this flower, even though it was riddled with bugs. I don’t like bugs, but they’re ok as long as they stay on the flower.

And then there are these flowers.

These are the flowers that I picked for my mother as a child. This picture was taken in the apple orchard, next to my mom’s garden. That’s also the place where I stepped on a nail when I was 11 years old, and had to walk with Grandpa Tootsie Roll’s cane for 3 weeks.

But, the flowers are still pretty. Tetanus shot or not.

Then, I got back on the road and drove another 4 hours west.

The entire drive, I marveled at how close the clouds were to the horizon. They don’t look like that in Maryland.

Sunroofs come in handy sometimes. Especially when taking pictures of clouds.

I’m pretty sure I wasn’t supposed to be doing this while I was operating a motor vehicle while doing 80 miles per hour. Don’t tell anyone.

It’s pretty boring when you’re in a car by yourself for 4 hours.  What else was there to do besides eat Dunkin’ Donuts and take pictures out the sunroof?

And then, I arrived.

I had a date.

I couldn’t be late.

I’ve waited 15 years for this date.

Finally.

There was much screaming, and smiling, and carrying on.

It was worth the wait, and the money I dropped on the tickets and the RV to spend the night in.

Yes, I said RV.

Although it’s a little dark, this picture (taken from atop a ferris wheel), depicts my sleeping quarters most accurately.

The little tiny rectangles in the upper portion of the picture? Yep, we slept in one of those. It was very wiggly.

Sadly, this is one of the last pictures of the weekend.

It was so much fun, but I’ve missed you guys. Now it’s back to blogging as usual.

This was my last weekend excursion until July, when I venture back to good old Central New York for Boilermaker weekend! I’m getting excited!

Who else is getting excited for an upcoming race?

* Have you joined my Facebook Group yet?

* See how my training is going over here!

* Wonder what I’m eating?

* Everyone loves a giveaway!

My Momma lives 6 hours away from me. In the past, we had a difficult relationship. Now that I’m older, I can freely admit that our problems stemmed from the fact that our personalities are so very much alike. At the height of our fire-breathing arguments, when I was younger, it was always Momma’s fault.

These days, I appreciate her. Granted, she still makes me crazy from time to time, as mothers tend to do. But I love her candor, the way that she dotes after my niece, and mostly…mostly…I love her utter silliness. My Momma is silly. I got that from her. We laugh at things that other people just don’t think are funny.

When I was in elementary school, I had a horrible habit of cracking up laughing during class over things that other people clearly did not find funny. I would laugh. I would stop laughing. Then, I would make that strained “I’m not going to laugh” noise, which is so unbecoming in the middle of a silent classroom when you’re 10 years old and trying to develop normally and make friends.

I always got in trouble for this problem in school, and one day, Momma sat me down and told me that she had the same problem in school. I told her that I didn’t want to laugh so much, but I just couldn’t help it. She told me that the only cure that ever worked for her was to think of the saddest thing you could imagine, and it would always make you stop laughing. Fortunately, it works. Unfortunately, I had to force myself to think horrible thoughts just to stop the giggling.

The moral of the story? I’m just like my Momma. And, I’m mostly ok with that.

What I’m not ok with?

The fact that I received this in the mail yesterday from my silly Mom.

It didn’t make me giggle.

Ok, maybe I giggled a little.

So, I am basically a blabbermouth. This is something that I’ve always been and probably will always be.

What can I say–I just like to share information.

So, in honor of information sharing, I would like you to enjoy this little tidbit of me, my past, my history, my upbringing. It all sounds very poetic, no? Well, I just found out that my hometown has a website, including none other than a live camera feed! This sheet is fascinating!

This camera is located in the parking lot of one of the stores on main street. From this angle, you can see one of the 3 stop lights that the town is blessed with. Up until the time when I moved 11 years ago, we only had one stop light. By George, they’re really doin’ it now with 3!

I have stared at this live parking lot feed for about 15 minutes…staring at the ugly, slushy snow in the parking lot.

Knowing full well that I need to go to my storage unit and get my winter boots before I venture to good ole Camden tomorrow. Gross.

With all of the school closings that I’ve been hearing about today (although not in the DC metro area), I can’t help but feel all warm and squishy on the inside with the thought of snow days of past. Growing up in the middle of a corn field in Upstate NY rewarded me with plenty of days off on account of the snow (although much fewer than the DC Metro area, since Upstate NY’ers know how to drive). There were some days when the school bus would come to a dangerous, side-sliding stop 15 yards from my driveway due to the thick sheet of ice on the road. Minor detail.

When My Sista and I were young, snow days were an invitation to build a snowman, or trudge through the woods with our red flying discs looking for the steepest hill within a 1 mile radius. I was always the one lagging behind the rest of the group complaining about something. Have you ever seen “A Christmas Story”? Well, it is one of my all time favorite movies, partly because I can really identify with Ralphie’s little brother, Randy. All bundled up, falling behind, and whining to high Heaven about it. Man alive, I was a fantastic complainer!

As we got older, however, school closings were just a reason to sleep in and be lazy. Sort of like playing hooky from work nowadays, only without the guilt of playing hooky from work. I never do that though. My guilt complex is far too large for that.

In New York, when the snow came, there were arsenals of snow plows lined up on the highways and byways just waiting for the first flake to fall. They were like horses at the starting gate. Dogs pacing at the door to go outside and pee. Me at Thanksgiving/Christmas/insert holiday feast waiting for the mashed potatoes. You get the idea. They were ready. The state highway employees would literally sleep wait in their trucks on the side of the road until the snow came. Once that first flake fell, it didn’t have a hope in the world. It was cursed from birth. Can you imagine being an innocent little snowflake, minding your own business, when out of nowhere, THIS comes at you doing 55mph?!

That snow plow means business! That snow plow is not to be messed with! That snow plow scares me! The snow knows better, too. Just look it–gads of snow, retreating, fearing for their little snowflake lives!

This next one is a portrait of beauty. Someone loves this snowplow so much that they Photoshopped it. Good lordy bigordy do they ever love this snow plow!

I always want to see snow on Christmas. There is just something fantastically ethereal about waking up on Christmas morning to see a fresh dusting of snow on the ground. In light of that feeling, I always spend Christmas Eve channeling my Native American heritage (I’m sure I could find one if I shook my family tree vigorously enough), by doing my little snow dance. I’m not exaggerating.

When the snow arrives (as it always does because I am a stellar snow dancer), I immediately dread my decision to get back to my roots. Since living in Maryland, I mostly wish for snow only until it gets here. I like the idea of Maryland snow, but I hate the reality of Maryland snow. Maryland snow is an absolute nightmare to deal with. Snow is not fun in Maryland! Snow is a curse in Maryland! Maryland snow that arrives on a weekday between the hours of 12-5PM causes me to have to sit in my car for 5 HOURS, just to drive 7 miles! Maryland snow is not my friend! Maryland is not prepared for snow whatsoever. I curse out my car window at the incompetent snow plow drivers. They just laugh at me as they stare, mesmerized by the falling snow.

This is a Maryland snowplow driver.

I’m not exaggerating.