When It Snows It Blizzards

I woke up in the wee small hours of the morning today, just barely awake enough to wonder WHY AM I SO COLD, a thought that semi-occurred to me as I padded off in the general direction of the bathroom, right before I collided with the hard, unyielding edge of my closet door.

Oh. We're back home. The bathroom's a bit more to the right.

We're back home, where it is snowing, where it will apparently be snowing FOR THE REST OF OUR LIVES, or at least the rest of the weekend. The villa staff did all of our laundry for us in Jamaica, so our suitcases are full of fresh clean..shorts. T-shirts. Tanks and sundresses. Bathing suits. I am tempted to just zip everything back up, shove it in a closet (I know just the one!) and sort it all out in June.

This weekend I am going to go through the roughly 40,000,000 photos we took and dust off my old expired Flickr account and upload them there, just to spare you the boredom of looking at 25 virtually identical shots of my preschool cavorting in the sand, dozens of sunset pictures, and there was this one day that I got really overly obsessed with getting photos of sand crabs. I have an ungodly number of sand crab photos.

THIS JUST IN: Sand crabs are ugly, kind of creepy.

PUT ME IN A SHELLACKED SEASHELL FRAME! PUT ME ON YOUR NIGHTSTAND! LET ME RUN ACROSS YOUR FACE WHILE YOU SLEEP!

In the meantime, if you are also stuck in the snow and would like to dream of a warmer climate (or, alternately, if your body temperature is soothed and warmed by feelings of burning hot jealousy), please to enjoy another batch of vacation photos. What? It's not like I invited you over for dinner and then set up the slide projector while you weren't looking. Oh Irving, remember the sand crabs? Here's a photo of a sand crab. Here's another one. Here's a photo that would have been of a sand crab if the sand crab hadn't run back into his hole right before Mabel snapped the picture. See that dot right there? Yep. That's another fucking sand crab, can you fucking believe it.

The most private public beach in the world.

Noah, post-beach-post-nap.

Contemplating the Jonas Brothers. Quite seriously, I may add. That Nick one sounds very driven! (NOTE: I have no idea which one is Nick.)

BLUE STEEL.

Oh! So funny story. After contemplating the terrible state of my toenails here, I decided to get a pedicure. And after finishing this beer here, I decided to open another. You know, to sustain me through the terrible ordeal of a spa treatment. Except that instead of the bottlecap coming off, the entire lip of the bottle went with it. And I stood there for a minute, contemplating this hunk of jagged glass attached to the bottle opener, when our housekeeper was all, OH HONEY! and pointed out that I had gashed my entire index finger open. Then I was all, huh. She bandaged me up and said something like, TSK! AND THIS IS WHY YOU ASK SOMEONE ELSE TO OPEN BEERS FOR YOU.

Anyway. My finger was fine. I skipped the manicure, though.

On Wednesdays, James makes jerk chicken for everybody. (And a hunk of jerk tofu for any vegetarians.) The cooking demonstration was, for Jason, about the equivalent of a teenager getting hair-styling secrets from the Jonas Brothers. The secret is to smoke it over pimento leaf. You know, FYI, if you were wondering what to do with that pimento tree in your backyard. I know I sure was. Lousy freeloading tropical climate tree. 

Yeah. I miss it already. It was really, really nice.