my white christmas
There is a decidedly Western feeling about traveling east. After rambling (and vomiting, and playing cards, and whining, and stringing christmas lights, and drinking perm-flavored water, and laughing hysterically, and trudging, and searching, and sleeping, and growing ecstatic, and growing impatient, and stealing, and whispering) with the one I love through Nevada, Utah, and Colorado on Amtrak's own California Zephyr, I now face the immense task of staying put for ten days.
If the hair on my legs and the dirt in my hair are any indication of how rugged I am, then I am a regular mountain man.
"Sorry Mom, my oversized brawny hands are too rough and calloused to handle the Christmas ornaments this year. I'll just go chop wood instead."
If truth is any indication, then, well, I'm a California girl for life. I'm going to go put on my bronze shoes and a skirt and sing "Sleigh Ride" at top volume.
If the hair on my legs and the dirt in my hair are any indication of how rugged I am, then I am a regular mountain man.
"Sorry Mom, my oversized brawny hands are too rough and calloused to handle the Christmas ornaments this year. I'll just go chop wood instead."
If truth is any indication, then, well, I'm a California girl for life. I'm going to go put on my bronze shoes and a skirt and sing "Sleigh Ride" at top volume.