one award, seven things about me, and some other stuff.

In keeping with this week's theme of "rites of passage," I have officially received my first blog award. (!) Thanks, Jeigh, for being awesome and making me feel good about myself. And for laughing at all my stupid jokes. And for getting excited about all the right things. Dang, you're cool.

Look at how pretty it is!

The catch, of course, is that I have to share interesting things about myself. And then, you know, pass on the award, which is the fun part! But before we get to that fun part, here are seven things you may or may not know about me.

1. I am a vegetarian. Surprised? Strangely, even my grandmother forgets this about me, from time to time. Which is funny, because I haven't eaten meat since I was, like, six. I just don't like it. It began, in all honesty, with my dad referring to my half-eaten drumstick as a "chicken leg." The freak-out went a little something like this: "What?! WHAT. AM. I. EATING???!!!!!" Little Julie was horrified. Dead animals + my insides = should not be mixing. Soon after that, the texture of most meats began to revolt me--ground beef is the absolute worst. Even though I didn't officially call myself vegetarian until college, I hadn't eaten meat without grimacing or complaining (or abstaining entirely) since the chicken leg debacle of approximately 1991. It's a little bit animal rights, a little bit "I just don't like it," and a little bit of that original freak-out, still hanging on.

2. I am the only girl (of my generation) in my biological family. I have one brother... and five male first cousins. Surprisingly, I never played sports.

3. Scars: I have a scar on my lip from falling down the stairs on my fourth birthday, chasing after my new kitten. That kitten just passed away a year ago. She was 21. I have a scar on my hand that is a complete mystery, which is a shame, because it looks really cool. Yeah, I'm kind of boring at the scar game.

4. I am embarrassingly sensitive to silverware. Silverware rips holes in my sanity, if I'm not careful. I hate the feeling/sound of metal scraping against my teeth (uuhhnghg), on plates (eeeeenghkk), even other people's teeth (pleaseplease, make it stop). It doesn't upset me emotionally or anything, so don't feel like you have to apologize for scraping your teeth across your horrible, metal fork every time you take a bite *shudder shudder scream gag*, but now you know why I sometimes have to find a random subject to talk about, or suddenly go to the bathroom. I'd rather do that than say, "I'm sorry, every new friend I ever make, I detest silverware. I require that we only use plastic or bamboo flatware in my presence." I save that for my poor husband. In fact, his very first gift to me, back when we were dating, was a set of bamboo flatware. I'm not kidding (he's such a keeper). And every holiday with my parents, my place is clearly defined by the plastic picnic ware 'mongst the good china and fancy goblets. You didn't know it was this bad, did you? I'm trying to improve. At least I don't take my own flatware with me to restaurants (but don't think it hasn't crossed my mind).

5. I used to ride horses. Then I got scared. Story of my life.

6. I am mildly in love with anime. I don't have an excuse. It's a guilty pleasure. If I can ignore the typically over-dramatic dialogue (and steer clear of the particular shows involving larger-than-life boobs), there's just something about it that makes me feel all happy inside. There. Now you know.

7. The first blog I ever followed was The Itty Bitty Kitty Committee. In fact, I joined blogger so I could follow it. Don't make fun. I was planning a wedding at the time. Baby cats = stress relief of kings. When I finally started my own blog, there was this huge mental hurdle I had to get over. I was like, "What do people who don't foster kittens blog about?" And then I found the YA writing community, and the "Aha!" moment was not far behind.

Aren't you glad to know all those weird things about me? I have dutifully prepared you for possible conversation topics, future trivia, and, of course, what to do when faced with the daunting situation of dining with me.

[Speaking of trivia, and anime, and The Count of Monte Cristo (were we not talking about that one?), this is a real thing. It is so bizarre. Be warned, though, it's not for kids... and not really anything like The Count of Monte Cristo (though still more faithful than the Jim Caviezel version). I'm also not technically recommending it to someone unfamiliar with anime (there are lots better out there). But it is just so dang weird, I had to mention it. If you're not familiar with anime, but you want to be (rah rah!), start with any film by Hayao Miyazaki, as I'm sure I've said before. Love love love.]

Anyway, now onto the fun part! *obligatory drumroll* My three picks for this award are:

Elisabeth, at fairbetty's world: A real life friend who just happens to also be a blogging, aspiring novelist. Yeah, it's pretty awesome. Plus, she just got back from "researching" in Scotland. You know you want to be a part of that. Tidbit: her cousin, Katie, and their annual family trip to Mt. LeConte (sound familiar yet?) may or may not be what brought my husband and me together. :) Them's family ties, right there.

Amber, at C(am)em(ber)[t]: quite possibly my favorite blog title, ever. She's a friend, listener, and make-happen-er: smart-as-a-whip and pretty, too. And her blog is full of thoughtful, useful stuff. She lives and breathes writing, and boy is it contagious.

and

Jessica, at Graduate Gourmet: Because after a long day of writing, is there anything better than gawking at beautiful food? No. :) Jess and I are long time friends and camp buddies. Now she lives and works in DC, and blogs about food, and dangitall if the girl can't roast some mean asparagus. Foodies unite!

So, go on over! Show some love! And winners, now you get to pass it on, if you like. See, isn't this fun? Later on, friends (I'm cutting this a little short, because hoo-wee, would you look at the time).

Bye!

greetings from new england.

Once, in the sleepy island town of Nantucket, Massachusetts, there lived (temporarily) a girl of 25 who did not entirely know what to do with her life. Retail was getting her down, and vacation was making her antsy. She had spent nearly a month weary with both. Uh, she thought, I probably shouldn't complain. Luckily for her (but not so luckily for her pocketbook), she had discovered a lovely, independent bookstore, only two blocks from her room at the lodge.

The girl's husband was less fond of this proximity. "Aren't you ready to leave, yet?" he'd had to ask, multiple times, on both visits. The answer had been no, of course. But, he'd let her roam for so long already, and done so well (2:45:58) in the race that brought them to New England in the first place, that it seemed unfair for her to dig her heels into the floor, tempting as it was. Graciously, he did let her buy the handful of things that had stolen her heart. To rephrase: she was going to buy those things regardless. Her husband was gracious about it. "But next time," he added, "we're setting a souvenir budget."

That evening, while her husband slept off his prime rib and beer (men), the girl redid the look of her blog, and then wrote about herself in the third person. It wasn't quite as delightful as buying new books, or fantasizing about quitting her day job (and forgoing all future day jobs) to be a successful novelist and actress, but it would suffice until then. She hoped.

The girl found this photo on the internet. It is, surprisingly,
the exact view she'd had while eating lunch the day before.

my funny motivations.

I guess I don't really mean ha-ha funny, here.  Sorry to disappoint the hopefuls.  I'm having a slight woe-is-me fest.  I'm not really sad about anything.  I just feel different.  I feel... unlike other people.  I have always, always felt this way.

In pondering this on the way home from work yesterday, my mind wandered to a story idea I've been toying with for the past month or so.  It's one of those sigh-inducing flights of fancy that may never see the light of day, but it sends me into mental giggles and I can't let it go.  And as I was rattling off all these imaginary things to myself, about imaginary people and imaginary events, I realized:  This sounds so weird.  I am a complete nut.  Because, it is (I am?).  It really very much is.  What makes it stranger is that it's not fantasy.  If I wrote this thing, it would be a contemporary story about some kids in a state of hyper-creative madness.  It wouldn't involve drugs, but it might make you feel like you'd been taking some (pure speculation, there, but one of my recurring ideas does involve a gigantic, pink afro wig) (maybe it would involve drugs).  I don't want to talk about it too much.  I only mention it because it got me to thinking:

Why do I like all the weird stuff?  I mean, has anyone seen The Science of Sleep?  A Life Less Ordinary?  Happy Accidents?  i heart huckabees?  These are some of my favorite movies, but I can't watch them with other people because it weirds them out.  Namely, my adoring and wonderful husband. He abounds in excellent qualities, but he'll pass on the weird movies, thank you.  So why do I love them so much?

I don't gravitate toward inherently weird music, but it's not very much like the stuff other people listen to.  My best friend from high school recently burned me a copy of Florence + The Machine, and I like it well enough, but I literally sighed with relief when I took that out and put The Wild Band of Snee back in.  The Wild Band of Snee, people.  It's a real thing (so, I do gravitate toward weird music, apparently).  Which, now that I think about it, is what instigated the story-daydream mentioned above.

But, you know what?  I love these things about myself.  So, I'm taking back the woe-is-me, and replacing it with heck-yes-is-me.  And, dangitall, I just realized how very Velvet Box-y I am being right now.  Not feeling like anyone understands me.  Being proud of it, anyway.  What was this post supposed to be about again?

Oh, right, how I feel so different.  I've established that I love this about myself.  But it does bring about some challenges.  Like, I don't really care about publishing anything right now, which probably makes every other writer out there think me defective, or "not a real writer."  Maybe I am defective.  But I am a writer (noun: one who writes stuff, i.e. me).  Is it so bad just to be writing because I enjoy it?  And, for the most part, the stuff that I write is so off-the-wall, I doubt it would really "sell."  So, what do I do?  Give up?

Psh.  Of course not.  This is what makes it fun.  If I want to write a crazy adventure set in an implausible world, I'm going to (and, uh, I am).  Does it have anything to do with all those hot paranormal creatures everyone's so a-gaga over?  Nope.  Is it romantic and kissy?  Not yet, and possibly not ever.  But who cares?!  It's fun and scary and intriguing (I like to think these things about my own work, but I could be entirely wrong, of course).  I'm having a good time.  And I have a few potential (or more than potential- yay!) crit partners who will hopefully enjoy it and be blessed by it and help me make it the fullest it can be, and then you know what?  You know what my greatest desire for this story would be (my w.i.p., not the crazy pink afro one)?  To write it out by hand in a series of gorgeous journals, along with illustrations by my grandmother, tuck them into an attic, and watch some grandchild discover them when I'm old.  This is my ultimate fantasy right now.

That makes me weird, right?  I still would love to be an author.  I've dreamed of it since I was ten.  Granted, I've also dreamed of being an actress, singing in a band, and running away to Greece.  But my passion is not in the title "author."  It's in the act of writing.

So that's what I'm going to do.  I read something today about how different people define success.  Success for me would be giving glory to God through this gift he gave me-- the gift of enjoying creativity.  If His plan involves more after that, wonderful.  If not, I'll keep writing the weird stuff and tuck them away in attics to my heart's desire.  And it'll be awesome.

So, friends, tell me.  What makes you weird?

why, today, i am a grown up:

We bought furniture!  That's right, after a year and three months of marriage, we finally bought new furniture.  And if you'd told me six years ago that I'd be blogging about such things, I would have said, "Well, then it must be an awesome table."  And I would have been right.

Granted, this picture does it very little justice.  Ours has a distressed white wash (without really looking white), and the wood is a lot less even on top.  So, picture that, and you have our new table!  It's modest, sure, but that's perfect for us right now.  Mm, mm, mm.  We also got two (burnt orange stripedy) chairs and a (sage green) bench to go with it (both upholstered), plus the most wonderful, whimsical serving console on the planet.  I have no idea how to find a picture of it online, but it looks like something Laini Taylor would blog about.  And if you're going to trust anyone's taste, trust hers.

Sigh.  I know this is kind of a weird post for me, but I was too excited not to share.  I'll put up pictures once everything is in place.  I can tell that Joshua and I are going to have a very cabin-y home, full of old doors and up-cycled railroad ties for furniture.  And the best-- the best!-- thing about this little table is that once we have need for a larger dining table, it will work as a desk.  For me!  It's called a Palma Desk, in fact.  Now, how is that not just meant to be?  It practically has my name!

where were you on 2.5.08?

There are days and experiences that one never forgets, and that day, for me and a lot of my friends, was February 5, 2008, when our university was practically destroyed by a tornado.  I used to rattle off details about how big the tornado was, so I could sound impressive, but I've forgotten all those facts now.  All that sticks with me anymore is what I saw and heard, how I walked around campus in a daze, no longer a student but not yet a true alumni (I'd only graduated a month and a half before, and still pretty much lived on campus).  Under these pictures are my original captions from the photo album I put up on FB the week after the tornado.

The million dollar shot- the first thing I saw (at least, the pitch-black version)
when I crossed the street from Cherry Grove at 7:15 pm on 2.5.8.

I'll never forget the terror of that sight, illuminated only by ambulances and police cars.

Here is where I stood for a while, too, helping to clear the path of cinderblocks
and metallic wires while all the McAfee kids made their way to White Hall.
The first thing they saw when they turned the corner was the heaping mass
once known as Jelks and Wingo. I witnessed every group that passed react in
almost the same way: screaming, crying, calling out to God.
I had to leave after a while. It was almost too much.

Sorry.  This post is a downer.  The next picture isn't too wild, but I'd forgotten about this part of the night until I read the caption.  I had blocked it, I guess.  There are some other details I didn't add, but I assure you.  Watching people pass out is scary.

This is where I stood for half an hour Tuesday night, horrified.
A group of injured students huddled on the curb here, waiting for an
ambulance ride or medical attention. If any of you are reading this,
sorry I just stood there. I didn't know what was going on.
I hope you all are feeling better.

I want to say that I could keep going, but I'm not actually sure that I could.  The tornado is something I remember with anxiety, and perhaps a little fondness.  Not because I love tornadoes, but because I love my friends, and I love that no one died, and I love that even the most terrified of my classmates gave glory to God throughout the whole awful event.

And it wasn't just the tornado.  The entire week following was its own sort of experience.  The day after the storm, no one was allowed back on campus, and even though I lived across the street, it was still horrifying.  I had friends who lost everything.  Or, at least, lived without their possessions for weeks.  And the things that were returned to them were never the same.  I still hear people say, "I had that shirt/camera/DVD/book, but it flew away."

Emily had framed a picture of us, which she was going to give to me for graduation, but it was assumed lost in the storm.  Then, amazingly, she found it among her belongings in the big, black trash bag they returned to her, the wrapping paper rotted away.  I keep it on display constantly, not only because I love Emily, but also because of what it symbolizes to me.

My Katie had just moved out of my apartment, because I was about to go back home, and she lost so much because of it.  I still feel guilty about that.  Not that there's any way I could have known, of course.  I'll never forget the day she and I snuck past the caution tape and reached in through her kitchen window to save her tray from Tanzania, which the bag-n-taggers had overlooked.  Oh yes, we did.

There are so many things tied up in this experience, I could devote an entire memoir to it.  For instance, this was when my then-future-husband and I started talking.  He heard about the tornado at Union on the radio... on BBC!  BBC!  And he wrote to me immediately.  That was maybe the wildest part about it.  Being in the news.  People I knew were being interviewed on every major network, it seemed.

I was supposed to move back to Louisville that week, but couldn't.  I stayed and helped.  I sat in the library and was part of the call team, checking in with every single member of the student body.  And when I did go home, I only stayed for four days before coming back again.  I helped the Dean with the re-start of the semester (class had only been in session three days before the tornado).  There's also an incredible bit in here about how Cedarville (where my husband went to school) secretly threw our Howdy Party for us.

Important note:  Yes, Joshua went to Cedarville.  But the party thing was as much a surprise to him as it was to me.  But, still, what are the odds?

So that's that.  For now.  It's emotionally exhausting just to think too much about it.

Here are the links to all the related pictures:  first album, second album, and third.

adventures with lu, my pesky internal editor. also, david mead! who, unlike lu, is an actual person.

Back to posting from the library = back to normal.
Somewhat normal.
At least, back to feeling like I could easily play normal.


And with this thought comes an entirely unrelated confession:  I let my mom read the giant spider story.  
It was a moment of weakness and confusion, riding in the car with my parents to Cocoa Beach, still reeling from all the people I'd met and the stories I'd heard.  I opened my computer and wanted to write so badly, but felt too mentally and emotionally spent to do anything about it.  I could have just put the computer away and gone on listening to whatever was on the iPod.  Instead I said, "Here, Mommy, do you want to read my story?" and passed her the laptop before I could stop myself.


I don't know why it's any different.  I'd let my friend Becca read it, without the slightest second thought.  Then again, Becca is 16, and I wrote the story with her age group in mind.  My mom is almost 60, and the second after I put it in her hands, I wished I hadn't.  My mom HATES spiders.  My mom does not do scary or sad or creepy.  I usually don't, either, which is another reason I was afraid to let her read it.


What if she thinks I'm unstable?  What if she says, "Where did this come from?" Or, worse, "What's wrong with you?"  I mean, that's what I would have said.  Giant spiders?  Really?  A), that's lame, and B), disgusting.  You can do better than that.


Those are the things I would have said to myself.  All leftovers from how I felt in creative writing classes at Union.  "There's no such thing as [insert whatever I had made up here]."  I know.  I know there's no such thing.  So... why am I writing about it?  Am I... Am I not fit to write about grown-up things?  Non-pretend things?


It was all food for my internal editor.  I've only recently learned to turn her off, usually by saying:  "No one else is going to read it, Lu, so chill out."  Lu was okay with this.  Lu has let me get a lot of writing done in the past four months, all under the conjecture that it was for our eyes only.  And Joshua's, but he counts as one of us, too.


You can imagine Lu's tirade against my peace of mind while my mom read the story.
"She hates it she hates it.  She thinks you're insane.  It's bad enough her son has problems, now her daughter is writing stories about monsters eating people."  
You can, therefore, also imagine my surprise when my mom turned around and said, "I really like it!"


Naturally, I tried to squeeze from her that she was only saying that, that it was actually really twisted, that it embarrassed her that I had written it, but NO.  She genuinely enjoyed it.  


I said, "But you hate spiders!"
She said, "I know, but I liked the story."
I said, "Becca liked it, but she's 16.  I didn't think someone your age would like it."
She said that was silly.  She said that it was just like hearing me telling a story out loud, which isn't something I had thought of.  She said that was a good thing.


Now, don't go taking this the wrong way.  Regardless of the warm feelings flying around here, the story is not where I want it.  And I strongly feel that anyone who is not my teenage friend or my own mother (or my husband) would sort of laugh at it.  And that's okay, because it's goofy.  And it's not a priority, which is incredibly liberating.  I'm in no rush AT ALL.  I'm only enjoying the ride.  And I'm learning that maybe Lu is crazy.  Lu needs a hot bath and some chocolate chip cookies.  Lu needs to take up some other hobbies.  Something meticulous, like cross-stitch, so she'll leave me alone.


Funny how letting my mother read my writing brought about such a break-through for me.  Remember my whole, "It's all fun and games until someone I know reads what I wrote," debacle?  Well, maybe it's not that bad.  If my mom can read my story, a wacky blob that came out of my own head, and not run away screaming... then what's to stop me?


It's like graduating from writers' kindergarten.  Let's all go get some ice cream.  Actually, no, it's too cold for that*.  Let's go for a peppermint mocha.  Yum.


*commences celebration*


Speaking of Yum, has anyone here listened to David Mead?  Yes, the David Mead from the title.  Go do that, if you don't mind.  His album Almost And Always is my Current Favorite Music On Earth.  Every time I listen to it, I can't help but say, "Soooo pretty!" over and over again.  "Twenty Girls Ago" is my favorite song, thought it's difficult to choose just one.  
And check out the cool (if slightly creepy) cover!  

I like it.  I think.

Well, gang, that's all from me today.  I like this blogging thing.  I should do more of it.  Over and out.


*I say "It's too cold for that," because I feel that's what I ought to say.  Truth is, I had gelato last week when there was snow on the ground, and I do not regret it at all.

my husband makes me laugh, part three. or four.

Me:  Would you still love me, even if you [insert vaguely spoilery detail from a certain book that shall remain nameless]...?

Him:  Well, since that doesn't really exist, yes.

***

And here's my favorite, from a couple of months ago, on our way back from D.C.  We were in Virginia, going south west back home, and we passed a sign for Glasgow.

Me:  Glasgow?  Is there a Glasgow,Virginia?  Or is it for Glasgow, Kentucky?

Him:  I don't know... it must be Virginia.

Me: (being stupid)  Or maybe it's for Scotland!

Him: (completely straight-faced)  No... It can't be Scotland, Scotland's east.

another joshuaism.

Me:  "Well, how do you know I love you no matter what?"  (I was having a borderline crisis.)

Joshua:  "Because you say you do.  And you seem pretty honest."

september 17th.

Dear Blog,

Oh my goodness, today was incredible.  Okay, at first it was pretty typical (big plans in the morning, sucked into Netflix by 11, big plans lose their draw, the usual), but I let the typical happen because I knew we would be going to the fair later.

And I like fairs.

Before going downtown to meet Joshua at work, I thought I would attempt something productive, so I went to The Book Eddy on Chapman Highway.  Funky place.  I only saw about 5 books published in the last 15 years.  So, if you like old books, you'll like this place.  It even smells like old books.

Joshua and I got to the fair at about 4:30, and stayed till almost 9:30.  We pet some goats (a must when the opportunity presents itself) and saw a "Zonkey."  Yes.  It's a zebra crossed with a donkey, and it made me pretty sad.  Then I got to pet baby ducks and super-soft bunnies.  Made me miss the cat.

We drank Orange Juliuses (surprisingly filling) and ate this mysterious yet tasty sour rope candy.  I choked on a piece and coughed all over somebody's 165-lb. watermelon.  We saw a lot of prize-winning food we couldn't eat, but I wasn't too hungry right then because my throat tasted like Orange Julius and regurgitated cherry sugar.

Then we went to the circus.  For a 45-minute fair show, it was awesome.  Except for the clown bit.  Why does there always have to be a clown bit?

I wanted to ride at least one ride, but we never got around to it because Joshua got distracted by that wild instinct to win a stuffed animal for his woman.  I mean, it's necessary, right?  So he popped like 12 balloons, and I got this:

I had no idea about Domo until my husband won one for me at the Tennessee Valley Fair.  Granted, it's stuffed with paper, but I <3 it, anyway.  I've also just discovered that things like this exist, as well:

   

I love Japan.  Don't you?  I would have posted one of the videos, but it wasn't working for some reason.

So, now that I had my Domo monster, we needed some dinner.  How's this for fair food:  A bowl of beans, a cornbread muffin, and a basket of fried pickles with barbecue sauce.  I'm still thirsty from all that salt, even though I stopped eating the batter a quarter of the way through.  For dessert, Joshua had a root beer float and I fulfilled my duty as a true Arrested Development fan and got a frozen banana.  And it was delicious, even if some crass jerk made an off-color comment when I posed for a picture with it.  People are idiots.  If only he'd watched AD, he could have said something more tactful and humorous, like, "There's always money in the banana stand!" and then we could have high-fived or something.  Oh well.  His loss.

By the time we got to the Ferris Wheel, the line was so long that we decided to skip the rides altogether and go home.  We had had a great time, and definitely didn't need to spend any more money.  Especially since we knew we still had books to buy.  Yeah. Book Eddy is super cool, but if you're looking for something from this century that isn't The Lovely Bones or The Road?  You might not have too much luck.

We got to Borders with 15 minutes left before closing.  Joshua bought The Death of Ivan Ilyich and Other Stories, by Leo Tolstoy (which he could have easily found at the Eddy), and I bought the whole stinking Hunger Games Trilogy Box Set.  You can see how our literary inclinations differ from time to time.  I also got a cup of water.

At home after a long evening (and here's where the story gets good), we sat down to read our new books/half watch TV/Joshua fall asleep on the couch, just like most nights, when, Raaahw, raahw!  Meeaaahr!  I shot up.  "Did you hear that?" I yelled.  Joshua looked up from the other couch all groggy faced.  "Hear what?"  Before he could finish, the cat fight noise started again, and I said, "That!" and rushed to the door. 

I don't know.  Maybe after all these weeks of hoping that whatever noise I heard could somehow, magically, be Adelaide, I had finally given in to despair.  I honestly did not expect to see her there on our porch.  Or maybe I knew it was her, this time.  Who knows.  Maybe both, somehow.  I threw open the door to scare the fighting cats away, but recognized Adelaide (who bolted into the bushes) and started screaming, "Joshua it's Adelaide!  Joshua it's Adelaide!  ADELAIDE!  JOSHUA, GET THE FOOD!"  I absolutely flipped.  I think I started crying.  I walked around our front yard shaking the food bag and calling her name through giddy almost-tears.  Joshua got a headlamp and we found her purring by the picket fence.  I picked her up in my arms and all the stress I had accumulated over the last three weeks just fell away.  No more dreams about finding her swimming in a lake or at my parents' house or in a mall somewhere, and then waking up to find it wasn't real.

So there you have it.  We didn't have to put up posters, after all.  She probably never even got too far from home.  Three whole weeks.  Dang.  We had said, pretty much from the beginning, that if God wanted her to come back to us, she would.  And I am so glad he did.

Love,
Julie

one of many great things about this boy i married.

He makes me laugh.

Husband:  "Whoa!  Look at my biology project!"

Me:  "I didn't know you had a biology project going."

Him:  "Yeah.  It's the banana bread.  See?"

Me:  "Mm."

Him:  "It looks like a snowy wonderland.  But it smells a lot worse."