The other morning (Nick and I now carpool to work), Nick turned the key in his SUV and white, batting-like bits blew from the defrost vents and, I imagine, created a life-sized CR-V snow globe. He, uh, parks outside these days. A cute red car resides in the garage, see. Ahem. Moving on. I will accept no guilt.

Well, he said nothing to me, busy throwing on my last bit of mascara, as he reentered. It wasn't until we were converging on the vehicle that he submitted his suspicions—and concerns—that a mouse had taken residence in his vehicle. Friends of ours had this happen to them during a camping trip last June, and it caused considerably expensive damage to their Jeep. I moved gingerly to the passenger side, because of my bum bum of course, but also because I am not a mouse person. I've never had any sort of rodent as a pet and have long loved their mortal enemies above all other animals—here kitty-kitty-kitty!

So it was with great trepidation that I arranged myself in the bucket seat. After work, Nick bought mousetraps and set one on the driver's seat floor before retiring for the evening. Grimly he checked the trap next morning and disposed of the uh...well, anyway. We took my car yesterday. However, I had a surgical workup at noon, and my father dropped me off at home afterwards (it was my half-day at work). This is all fine and dandy, but I wanted to make Nick cookies, the one he hinted for me to make for him during my time off from work—hinted with none of the covert and all of the obvious.

Peanut Butter Temptations, he tells me, maybe not by title. I only know their name because once upon a time, we had a cookie bake every December on my Dad's side of the family...and apart from the krumkake, rosettes, and fattigmand (traditional Norwegian cookies), we made scores of others, including the famed Peanut Butter Temptation. So I needed ingredients for dough. I would have to take Nick's SUV. He had set another trap that morning...so, carefully, I scooched the empty trap under the seat before I climbed inside.

Well, during my short drive home from the store, I hit a bump...the trap snapped. I screamed aloud thinking a mouse had just died MERE INCHES FROM MY PERSON, and turned the radio on to blare Christmas Carols at me through the final minutes of the trip, willing myself to forget. It must have worked as, upon returning home, I jumped from the car and carried my bags inside, completely forgetting to check the trap. In hindsight, to be fair, I doubt I would have anyway, even if I remembered. I've watched enough CSI that I don't ever want to discover a body, I'm pretty sure.

So, I was watching a cute little Christmas movie on TV last night, thoroughly exhausted after a seemingly simple circuit of the Madison area in the name of elfish behavior. Nick, having had no prior exposure to my fabled Christmas donkey, found himself immersed in the story—he proclaimed half-way through that so far it was just sad, and his interest had piqued to see how it could all possibly turn around.

Well, without giving it away (you'll just have to donate 22 minutes of your precious time to the cinematic brilliance of stop-motion animation if you're dying to know), I'll have to change the names a bit. Nestor makes it to....uh...Pethlehem, and is sought out by two individuals—Nary and Boseph. They wind up in a stable and The Zavior is born. I looked over at Vick (sorry, NICK) at the conclusion to gauge his reaction, and found him chewing the inside of his lip.

"I think it's all a ploy to sell books," he decides in his smart alecky tone.

—"What!? When have you EVER seen anything about Nestor in stores?" I'm gullible, my mother often said so too.

"No. Jesus."

I snorted into the cup between my hands and looked to my devout Christian boyfriend with barely concealed humor.

During my youth (Nick dislikes when I say, "When I was little..."), we saw one, two at most, shows at the theatre a year. It was during the holiday season when we'd take the more illogical, back ways into Madison, and an even more nonsensical weaving path home—just to sing Christmas carols all the way and gaze at the light strewn homes and the warm glowing of lights pouring from the windows.

The year that Little Women came to the theatre, I didn't have to ask if we could see it, my mother being a fan herself. I have the book, her book from childhood, well read and frayed at the binding. I cherish the wear. Mom loved this story so much that she gave me the name of her most favorite character (and, coincidentally, mine as well), Beth. My middle name. My first name was donned in honor of her MOST favorite piece of literature, Little House on the Prairie.



I apologize, I've gotten off track. You must understand that I'm rather fond and not a little grateful of my borrowed names...for I am a devotee of the written word (and can easily blame my ardor for the eye-rolling my vocabulary tends to summon), but also because Mom saved me from Dad's naming abilities: he wanted to name me Kitty. Kitty Kittleson. You'd sing the praises of your name to be so saved, too.

There's nothing outwardly special about Beth. Meg is the propriety, Amy is the animation, and Jo...ah, Jo. Jo is the imagination...or, perhaps, the indignation. Beth was happy to simply exist. She didn't feel the need to make waves or to call attention to herself—in fact, she desired just the opposite...she wanted only to love her family and be loved in return. To me, her character speaks loudest of all. There is something to be said for the shy, for they won't say it for themselves.

My father and brother were less than enthused to see Little Women that year, so we each made a concession. They "suffered" through one of the most beautiful films of all time to make it to the next day, when Mom and I were tortured at the hands of Dumb and Dumber. I am watching the movie this morning, a film that I only watch at Christmas. It isn't a Christmas movie per se, but the tugging of my heartstrings sings ever so sweetly of the season.

The story of family—both the family we're born to and the family we make—of finding the vibrant beauty in the midst of a haze, of always knowing your lofty place in the hearts of your loved ones. The coloring is lovely, shot in the ambient glow of candlelight and the tree-filtered rays of sunlight and the soundtrack peaceful, transitioning easily between crackling fireplaces and chirping birds. The movie is about life, the best parts of life, the parts that are always there if you're looking for them. As Tolkien so wisely concluded, "It is not a bad thing to celebrate a simple life."

I listened to a good friend's podcast this morning, and she spoke briefly about the beginning of her blogging career. It caused me to think of mine, how it has evolved. I was inspired to blog by Anna, actually, as her site has long amused me...and I think our blogs have succeeded in keeping us close over the years, even though I haven't seen her or spoken to her since 2002. I started blogging to keep my family involved in my life 1,200 miles away. I wrote of only silly things, things I found funny, because I wanted to give a smile.

It quickly became difficult to be "always on". Not that I'm not amused daily, and not that I don't find occasion to laugh just as often, but there's more to life than gaiety...so much more. And it is the collection of emotions as a whole that make life so vibrant and cause such smiles. There is a breadth to life, and humor just barely tickles the edge.

It was quite droll to see the March sisters in their young lives, their imaginative escape from the reality of war...but how dull to not see their travails, their strengths tested, or the way it all works out in the end...it will always work out in the end. We're way too small in this world to see the bigger picture, so stop making yourself crazy trying to do so! This has been quite a year. I was surprised the other day to see my inner Mary Sunshine taking hold, and my recollections from 2006 being mainly good. My personal growth has been just outstanding, and maybe it took losing my crutches to find my balance.

Lucy Maud Montgomery's Anne Shirley (are you sick of me quoting lit yet?) said in response to a question about what she will do after she completes her four years at school, "'Oh, there's another bend in the road at the end,' answered Anne lightly. 'I've no idea what may be around it -- I don't want to have. It's nicer not to know.'"

Isn't that the truth! You cherish the good surprises so much more that way...

So, totally, the best part of my outpatient procedure, competing against both the almost 4-hour wait and the 36-hours-without-food tummy growl, was my anesthesiologist...who was a dead ringer for Patrick Dempsey. Yum-my.

And the second best was when he put a stick of gum in his mouth and Nick looked on, nervously, questioning if he was going to kiss me. They had already administered the feel-good, anti-stress narcotics, and I thought to myself in a drunken slur and with a concealed smile, "I'm not wearing underrrrwearrrr!"