Ice Cream Hero

We’re in Colorado for three weeks, which is almost long enough to stop saying golly every time I turn the corner at the ridiculously, wantonly, embarrassingly huge grocery store. Today, two days after Christmas, I bought the second to last tub of peppermint ice cream but didn’t also buy the last tub, which makes me a hero. Why am I even telling you this? Surely you’ve already heard, surely songs have been sung about the woman who bought only 50% of the supply of newly out-of-season, once-a-year, not-available-on-my-home-continent sweet dairy treat. I should admit, though, that my hero’s cape was donned this morning in the sure knowledge that both peppermint AND eggnog fudge awaited by return, triumphantly bearing peppermint ice cream or not. (THANK YOU RACHEL W., YOU ARE A PHENOM!!) It would appear that, rather than an absence of self control, I’ve just been saving it over the course of the last cookie-and-fudge-fueled week for one big self-control blowout in the ice cream aisle.

Frida wakes up full of stories and plans for the day. She explains them as we get dressed, saying ‘Maybe some dogs?’ ‘Mama drink coffee’ ‘Christmas tree no no’ ‘Shower by myself. Frida nudist!’ and other gems. When she runs out of things to say, she crosses her arms, tapping her forearm thoughtfully, and says, ‘Let’s see…’

She is a riot.

Max is turning over and is very much enjoying the action here at the farm: fresh air, sunshine, and cousins galore. When he sees your face from across the room he squirms with happiness. He is so cute I want to eat him.

Tobias has been jogging. Today he ran around the block. That’s 8 miles. Earlier in the week some local farmers came over to drop off a bull and stayed for a beer. As we were chatting, they mentioned that they’d seen a jogger. Funnily enough, this information was offered in the ‘News of the Weird’ category rather than the ‘Hey, We Saw Your husband’ category. Not a lot of joggers in these parts.

When we saw my grandmother last week, she said (to Tobias,) ‘Every time I see you I admire your slim figure.’ Does this sound funny to you? Something about it just killed me. What a turn of phrase: I admire your slim figure. I’m going to use that, I just don’t know where or when. Maybe the next time I successfully get my carryon suitcase into the overhead bin.

We’re planning on moving to Olathe, Colorado, and I worry about the meanness of the particular mix of fundamentalists in the region: rabid Catholics, unquestioning Baptists, the Church of the FirstBorn, etc. etc. There are 7 churches in a town of 1,000 people, and that doesn’t count the families who are big enough that they have their own in-home church. Not kidding.

The bagger at the huge grocery store today was named Adam and appeared to be completely through the female to male transition process. He was relaxed and cheerful, which makes me want to weep from happiness. I’m so glad that there’s a place for him here to live and to thrive. Although his life has almost certainly been much, much harder than mine, if there’s a place for him here there must be a place for me, too.

 

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