Top five posts I never wrote

This afternoon I was Spring-sweeping my porch, which I have been dying to use for nearly the entire time that we have lived in this apartment, and as I moved my long-neglected box planters to get into the last corner, my heart nearly gave out. Crouched defensively in the corner was a rather large gray song bird, looking up at the sky. I was sort of confused and transfixed until an one of our grotesque alien cricket bugs moved and I melodramatically dropped my broom and clutched at my chest, and the bird didn't move... and I realized it was dead.

It must have snuggled in there during the blizzard and tried to weather the storm, not realizing that 36 inches of powder were going to fall, and that it would keep falling for over a week.

Oddly, seeing the poor thing made me realize that that's exactly the condition I've been in in the weeks since the snow fell, maybe not physically, but mentally at least. I haven't died, obviously, but you might be amazed how much Buster dying killed my will to think about anything. So in an effort to emerge from the snow, these are the things I would have written about, had I been able.

5. SNOWPOCALYPSE! SNOWMAGEDDON! SNOW-M-G. Oh, snow you didn't! The snowpture! Teenage... mutant... snowja... turtles? Yeah, we got snow. It was deep. Real deep. Neither Tim nor I had school or work for an entire week (longer, actually) and dig I blog? No, I watched the news all day while they told us, "it's still snowing!" which, technically, I was aware of. We didn't emerge. Except on the first day which was the only day when the snow was beautiful and clean and we plaaaaaaaaaaayed. Oh we played.


4. The second day of the blizzard there was a lull, in which the Super Bowl occurred. Tim and I threw and party and made Gumbo and tried to feed seven people 35 people-worth of food, with a fair amount of success. I would cook for that many people every day if I could. Ok, maybe let's call it once a week. But I digress. If the Broncos can't go to the Super Bowl, the Saints might as well, and they better win.


3. And they better win because Mardi Gras cannot suck. But I suppose that's faulty logic because Mardi Gras couldn't suck under the worst of circumstances (even a 17-hour drive, both ways). This year, Tim and I stayed with Jared (and Coat-eater Wally) but I still think we spent more time with Carly than we did last year, even though we were there for less time. Now. Ok. So. I can't really... tell... you... per sé... about some of the exciting things that happened at Mardi Gras, in the interest of protecting the not-so-innocent, but those who might be described as "otherwise normal". All I'm saying is that if you actually COME TO MARDI GRAS when I invite you, then you'll know.


2. And while I'm bossing you around, you might consider coming to visit Tim and I in Panama City this summer. Not the one in Florida, the one in Panama. I'll be working on my thesis and my tan, but also on my tourguide-esque backward-walk and informative hand gestures in preparation for your arrival. Tim will be working for the embassy there and as usual, I am constantly awed by his ambition and ability to convince other people to think he's amazing too--it's not just me who thinks so, apparently, or we never would have gotten this opportunity.

1. And so, the week after Buster died, my other dog, my huffing walrus, my lumpy loo, Dixie, also gave out. What do you say when both of your dogs die in one week, and it looks a whole lot like one of them just gave up out of depression? Well, not much it turns out. She stopped eating, and then she died. In the middle of winter. Poor damn dog.

Can you see why it didn't seem right to write about anything else?