Excuses, Excuses

I've got a bunch. And as soon as I catch up with my own life, I'll tell you ALL of them! For now, I'll leave you with something from Middlemarch, my current nighttime reading:


We mortals, men and women, devour many a disappointment between breakfast and dinner-time; keep back the tears and look a little pale about the lips, and in answer to inquiries say, 'Oh, nothing!' Pride helps us; and pride is not a bad thing when it only urges us to hide our own hurts- not to hurt others.


Be back soon, my lovelies! Missing y'all. 

Workout, K-Pop Music Video Style

So, the all-time sweetest and strawberriest blogger ever, Kerri from Your Wishcake, started this great thing (or terrible thing, depending on my own determination and staying power) called Work It Out Weekends. And I thought it was a grand idea, to tell you how fantastically I fail each week at becoming small enough to wear "free size" in Korea, or to having an S-line. (I am currently sporting the B-line. It's a Boobs and Belly shape.)

And God bless Korea because I showed an enormous amount of initiative and joined the gym this week. I joined with two Korean girlfriends on Wednesday and signed up for the Aerobics class at 10:40 am. It's offered everyday, but I think for now I'll stick with Monday, Wednesday, and Friday classes. But I am a bit addicted to it and found myself wondering out loud whether they had a class on Saturdays when I got up this morning. And Kenny knew something was up. Because all of the sudden on my day off, the day of doing nothing, the day of taking three hour naps after only four hours of being awake, the day of eating however many corn dogs I can handle- on this day, I consider going to the gym.

I mean, I didn't. But this is definitely a step in the right direction, y'all. I mentioned that last week I lost a kilo. (That's about 2 pounds for the Stateside folks. And see, the great things about kilos is that I count the amount of weight I need to lose in kilos because the number is smaller. But when I actually lose the weight, I count it in pounds because it pretty much doubles. It's a beautiful system of motivation, or self-deception, whichever.) I can drop weight pretty fast if I just discipline myself enough not to eat after 6 pm. Which, when you work from 1-9 everyday becomes quite the task because oh my god you have to think about what you're going to eat and actually make plans and cook ahead of time and then remember to take it with you to work. But this week, I let it slip a little because good grief I went to the gym twice! And this aerobics class is a full hour of jumping, popping, kicking, grape-vining, shaking, and more jumping.

If I could video tape me in this class, y'all, not only would I record it, I would post it on the Internet for the world to see. And then I would be all famous. People would call me The Aerobics Girl, and then I would get all these invites to talk shows and I would get to teach Ellen how to do aerobics Korean style and maybe finally meet G-Dragon. Because this aerobics is not like any aerobics you have ever seen. Unless you have seen this, on speed:

Because the aerobics instructor is hotter than these girls, I get insanely jealous during class. And there is a lot of standing still in this video. But in class, there is NO standing still. And they have a stereo with one of those knobs you turn to make it faster and faster, but without everything sounding like the chipmunks. So, speed this song up about 7 or 8 times faster than it is, imagine me trying to do this, but with all sorts of hops, jumps, knee raises, swivel hips, and cute little hand motions in all the places where these girls are standing still. I am not kidding when I say it is Korean music video class. Because this Friday, I learned this signature move from the Brown Eyed Girls:



This is not the Brown Eyed Girls. Because in their video, they do a lot of standing around and writhing on the ground. Which is actually not part of my aerobics class. although I do consider lying down in class sometimes. This is the Brown Eyed Girls video everyone is familiar with in Korea. But the move where they cross their arms and shake their hips back and forth, yeah baby. I got that one down. Because after that part, I'm completely lost. All the way. It's like my nightmares have become reality. When I was in high school (and even now sometimes) I would dream that I am at a dance recital. And I should know all the steps. But I don't. It's the most horrible feeling in the world. I can deal with the dreams where I almost die, where people are chasing me and trying to kill me, where Strawberry Shortcake leaves me in the forest to be eaten by a giant. But this whole being on stage and flailing around trying to keep up with everyone and drawing an absolute blank when it comes to the steps: that I cannot handle and wake up sweating with that awful feeling still in the pit of my stomach.

So yeah, Korean aerobics class is kind of like that. Because although I have rhythm, danced for 16 years, and still routinely perform in the kitchen while washing the dishes or cleaning the house, I cannot keep up with these ladies. So, I get a lot more rest than everyone else because I kind of do the whole  throw your hands in the air when everyone else does and try to figure out which direction they're moving in next. I've figured out one routine, but not entirely. It is hilarious. I do not even have enough shame to stand at the back! I stand right next to my friend, boldly showcasing my inability to perform 2NE1's latest moves and cutesy steps. This is another song we dance to, only some manic and fiercely fast version:



But I sweat. And I actually do have fun. Although I have come to loathe the fifty year old woman who centers herself in the front row and does everything with this look on her face like she's the instructor, even though her transitions are laughable and her movements often lack conviction. As in, what is that move supposed to be? Ohhhhh. She's trying to do the one where you contract your stomach while you pull your shoulders and hips forward and then arch your back, showcasing your boobs while throwing your arms and hips back quickly. But instead of contracting her stomach and arching her back in turn, she's just bending her knees. It's awesome.

So, to recap, I am going to aerobics class and trying to learn all these dances/aerobics combos that everyone else already knows! But, I did find out that they learn a new routine every other Wednesday and practice for two weeks. So, next Wednesday here I come! Because I will be on the same level as everyone else. For one routine. And the rest, I'll still be the girl turning three counts late, not knowing the 2NE1 hand signals to throw, or how to roll my butt in the right direction at the right time on the right count and pull my knee up to my boobs at the same time. Ah well, it's exercise, right?

What are you guys doing to Work It Out?

Because I'm Too Tired to Write

Y'all, I am tired. Of a lot of things. Oh, no, not YOU. I didn't mean I was tired of you. What are you thinking? You are about the only thing I'm not weary of. With the exception of the HubbO. Because I miraculously never tire of him. And the kitters. And, since you haven't seen them since the new year rolled around, I thought I'd post a few squee-tastic photos of them. 

Oh, and remember all that stuff about how Bo turned into a happy, social, uncrap cat? Yeah, he was just joking. And for that, he only gets one solo photo. (Not really. It's just that Miso seems to know what a camera is and that I want her to look at me.)

They both love Kenny's backpack. Bo had already claimed it, but Miso wasn't having any of it. She needed a bath and she needed to have it right here.

This is Miso's favorite napping position. You can still see where they shaved her little belly for her surgery. This picture should help you understand why I have to keep myself from squeezing her to death sometimes. She's just that cute. 

More later, my lovelies. I miss you. And I joined the gym. Korean Aerobics Fiasco coming soon!

The Place to Be

The first 2S2 meeting was fabulous. I had so much fun meeting new people, meeting commenters here (hi, Charity!), and hanging out with some of my coworkers outside of school. We met at a coffee shop, went ice skating, and then warmed up at another coffee shop. Which is how I believe all events should be: bookended by coffee. And chocolate cake in a cup. And good conversation that didn't revolve around massive generalizations about Korean  society. Which is sometimes hard to find when a bunch of expats get together. But apparently Wonju draws the laid back, open-eyed, and warm-hearted crowd. I mean, take a look at these faces. How could you not want to hang out with these guys??

Also, Ryan was there! But the only pictures I got  of him were really blurry because apparently he's an ice skating champ and doesn't stay still for very long. So, everyone, meet Ryan:

Not that hard to pick out of the crowd, eh?

Anyhow, I was totally doing the wobbly arm wiggle on the ice. Mostly I blame my ankles. And also my back fat. Because y'all, that extra padding around the back and the belly, it was messing with my usually exquisite sense of balance. (Also, I lost a kilo this week. Woot.) However, my frantic arm circles and ice skate jig didn't intimidate the youngsters. I was told to "Be quiet," "Shuddupshuddupshuddup," and also to "Do handshake. Handshake," by a number of small monsters called children. I think the kid who shook my hand won some kind of bet with his friends. I mean, I do what I can for the little ones.

Also, people skated:

After everyone's toes were sufficiently frozen, we headed off the ice and down the road toward MaryJane, a local cafe that serves THE BEST CHOCOLATE CUP CAKE IN THE WORLD. Actually, it's not quite a cup cake. It's more like cake, in a cup. And it's ooey and gooey and pretty much like eating the entire batch of brownies off the spatula without cooking them thoroughly. Isn't that everyone's dream, anyway? I always feel cheated when I taste the final brownie or cupcake and it doesn't taste like the stuff I liked out of the bowl. But this, this is how it's done.

Yum, right? Anyway, the "cupcakes" were delicious and the coffee was good. But the company was better.

Thanks to everyone who took time out of their Saturday to join us. And if you didn't take the time, then you can leave your apologies and also promises that you'll come next time in the comments section.

2S2 Wonju

Hey guys! Hope everyone is having a great 2010. Mine is going pretty well already. Today, Darren sent me an inspired email suggesting that we start a Wonju chapter of 2S2. 2S2 stands for 2nd Saturday at 2pm and is pretty much Roboseyo's baby. I took Darren's idea and we came up with a plan for THIS COMING SATURDAY because it's the second Saturday in January. I know this is soon, but hey, that's how I roll. So, if you're in Wonju, or in Gangwondo and don't have anything going on this Saturday at 2pm, I cordially invite you to our get together!

And, a map!

Do you love it? I know you do! And in case you don't love the hand-drawn-with-love map, here's a boring Google one:


View Larger Map

So, come on out and see us!

P.S. To all my lovelies who do not reside in Wonju and do not care about 2S2, I will have a normal Wonju Wife-ish post up soooon! Because I love you. And I'm awesome. But mostly, because I love you.

What the Crap Wednesday: The Kitters Edition

So, you guys remember our Bo Bear right? He's just not really full of joy. He poops on himself a lot, walks in it, doesn't clean himself, doesn't feed himself, and generally sneezes 100 times a day and has nosebleeds. Poor little guy. As you can see in his "before" picture, his chest hair gets a little greasy. Turns out, when you are a cat and your nose is stuffed, you don't smell dirty and you don't clean it. So, he was a little ragamuffin of a cat. And we were always like What the crap kind of cat are you, Bo? You don't play, you don't really get excited or open your eyes all the way EVER.

So, after we got back from our Jeju trip to find him at my mother-in-law's with dried poop on his shoulder (how, I ask you, how?), the hair on his chest greasy like my own hair that hasn't been washed for a month, and a fully clogged nose, I decided to take some action.

So, we came back to Wonju, and I decided with my days off that we'd take him to the vet and have him groomed. Because washing him at home is so traumatic. And yeah, we've given him haircuts before, mostly just cutting out the dried poo, but it looked ugly. I wanted things done the right way. And when they groom them at the vet, they put them to sleep. Which I'm not really a fan of, because maybe the end result is a little more traumatic. But the way he caterwauls and writhes to get away from us when we're painlessly, I reiterate, painlessly, trying to cut a chunk of matted hair off of him, I thought we'd give him a break and knock him out.

There is a cat who lives at the vet we go to. His name is Chop Chop. He looks like this:

How can you not love that face? Okay, minus the fact that the poor boy is wearing makeup. We're in Korea, so we don't really have to say What the Crap about the cat makeup anymore. But you may go ahead if you wish... Okay, so Chop Chop got a little trim. (After this picture was taken, obviously). He was still kind of fluffy, but most of his fur had been cut shorter, leaving his huge head and fat feet and the end of his tail alone. I figured that because my ultimate goal for Bo is for him to look exactly like and grow to the exact same size as Chop Chop, I'd just ask them to do the same thing to him.

So I left him at the vet and it was going to take them a while to do it. Kenny brought him home from work, and y'all, I laughed for 10 minutes straight.

And then when I was finished, I considered crying because he just looked so little and pitiful. And I know you're all reading this thinking that I'm about to go all What the Crap on the groomer. But you would be wrong. Because apparently, having your male cat shaved like this is like giving him a soul makeover.

First, I was taking pictures of Bo today and he crawled in my lap and sat down. What the crap? He never does that. He always just tries to get away from us whenever we try to pet him or hold him or anything. And he's a big fat baby, always whining about it. But no, he walked over to me, climbed up onto my leg, snuggled down into a comfortable position and laid there. I sat very still with my mouth hanging open in awe. Because like I say, this never happens.

Second, some of Kenny's high school students came over to bake cookies and watch a movie because they are on holiday. And guess what! Bo was the life of the party. One of the kids picked up one of Miso's cat toys and shook it. (Actually, we call all the cat toys Miso's because she's the only one who ever actually played. Like a cat.) And Bo RAN. He RAN to the toy and batted at it and chased it. He played for real. And not in his usual slow-motion, eyes-half-closed, please-stop-bothering-me way, either. He was enthusiastic. It was a miracle. What the crap?

And he was sociable! He hung out in the living room with everybody, cuddled in one girl's lap for a while, and generally was a great cat. It was like he was a real cat. What. The. Crap!

Also, he's become dependent on hand-feeding, because he can't look down without sneezing. So we have to hold his food up above his head and drop it in his mouth. Otherwise he doesn't eat, and then we can't feed him his stupid medicine because he'll just throw it all up, usually on the carpeted areas of our home. But today, he ate all by himself. For a long time. Just grubbing at his little bowl. What the crap?

Bo is like a new man. It's insane. I was all prepared when we brought him home looking like this to feel sorry for him until his fur grew out. (You wouldn't believe how soft he is, still.) But now, I don't have to feel sorry for him at all!

And Miso is pissed, y'all. She is not liking having any competition for attention. I feel bad for her. When we brought Bo home, she didn't recognize him. Not at all. She would hiss and growl at him. She has quit that, but she still gives him the stink eye whenever he comes around. She sniffs him a lot. And you would think she would know who he was by smelling him. But Bo smelled nasty. We were feeding him a lot of soft cat food, and as you know, he wasn't a washer. So his face always smelled funky, like tuna. And he didn't really clean his behind either, so sometimes he smelled a bit like poo. Basically, Bo smelled like crap. But when he came home from the vet, he smelled like a flower. And he looked like a completely different cat. So, I don't really blame her.

But I'll be giving her some extra attention over the next few days. See if I can even things out before I have to go back to work on Monday. Eeeeeew! Did I just talk about work before it was absolutely necessary?

So, to sum up: What the crap? Seems all our cat needed was a good cut and style. Who knew!

ChubbO Chubbington Makes a Comeback.

Hey, guys! Hope everyone had a lovely Christmas. I am working on a few posts because y'all, I had a half-crap/half-awesome time in Jeju over the holiday. In fact, I'm still on holiday! Until next Monday. But I'm busy. No nap for me today. Aren't you proud?

Anyway, today my first post is up at ZenKimchi Korean Food Journal. I'm incredibly giddy and excited about writing for them. Plus, Joe McPherson is one cool guy. Anyway, you can find my post here. Make sure you guys go leave lots of comments about how amazing and wonderfully written my article is, yeah? Okay, now go play with all your Christmas presents!

Christmas Blog Party: Driveway Dust Edition

Y'all. It's MEEEEEEEEEEEE! Oh goodness. Talk about Guest Blog Extravaganza. Next time I promise not to overwhelm you with so many Wonju Wifeless days in a row. Because, let's face it, all these guest bloggers were freaking sweet and I loved reading their stories, but DANG I MISSED MY BLOG! I'd like to thank you all for reading, especially for all the kind and encouraging comments you left the HubbO. Anyway, let's wrap this party up, what do you say?

Incidentally, the Christmas that The Sisda found out that Santa was a big ruse orchestrated by the parents every year was the exact same Christmas I realized I had been deceived.

It was not, as my father suggested, the Year of the Barbie House. It had been his job to put together that blasted Barbie House. And what you must understand about The Bob is that in order for anything to work, for anything to come together as planned, that thing must be persuaded. It must be talked to, as we say in the Buckley house. Apparently that particular Christmas, The Barbie House was not cooperating and The Bob was unable to give it a proper cursing because it was in the middle of the night, he was squished in the hallway, and I refused to sleep with my door closed. So while my father is breaking a sweat over the stupidpieceofcrapdollhousewhomadethisjunk, my mother is shushing him. He might wake me! He might ruin Christmas for me FOREVER. So, he's laboring under the weight of ruining my life pretty much. For all the fuss he made and all the talking to he had to give that house under his breath, The Bob was victorious. The Barbie House was intact and I was still full of faith in the Fat Guy. Also, I wore adorable Christmas nightgowns with stupid hats: see evidence above.

It's funny that a bike crushed my dreams of Santa for me. Because it wasn't the first bike that ruined everything. The first bike was also the Year of the Jeep. Yeah, one of those miniature motor-powered red Jeeps that my cousin Danny and I rode the crap out of up and down my grandmother's driveway. It wasn't just any Jeep either. It was like, Turbo Charged. Also, it was our police vehicle. We caught bad guys in that thing. Then, after we caught the bad guy, we decided what his punishment would be based on his crime. His options were: hanging, electrocution, and firing squad. Anyway, I think the fact that the Jeep overshadowed the bike probably kept my eyes off the wheels, which were white and would have hidden any gravel driveway dust quite well. So, the Year of the Jeep, my Belief in Santa Meter was 110% full. Because, how can you not love a guy who gives you a Jeep for Christmas? And a new Huffy bike. And a fabulous Minnie Mouse sleeping bag. Really, I ask you. (And yes, same nightgown, same bangs, shorter hair, bigger teeth.)

Also, my Santa Meter was full up because of the way Santa's Presents were never wrapped. Because, hello? Santa has to travel the entire planet and give everyone gifts. Who has time to wrap that many presents? That's how I always knew Santa was the real deal. He didn't mess with gift wrapping and handwriting. He set up all my gifts on the right side of the tree, Price is Right style so you could see a little bit of everything. And then Holly's presents would be arranged on the left side of the tree. Clearly, Santa knew us. And clearly he cared enough to construct a present mountain for each of us. But wrapping? Labelling? What a waste. Gifts from your parents and your family came in boxes, paper, and bags. Santa's gifts? They were awesome as is.

Because I had fallen asleep while Holly lurked, spying on the Mumsie and her bathrobed behind, I woke up Christmas morning full of joy, hope, and belief. But this year, my bike was the main attraction. It was a 10-speed. It was purple with hot pink accents. It was everything I dreamed of. Except the tires were black.

And ladies and gentlemen, there was driveway dust on the black tires. How? Is? This? Possible? I thought about it and thought about it and smiled for pictures with my new bike and my same ol' bedhead bangs. I was thrilled to have the bike, but this did not seem like Santa. It smelled a bit funny, if you know what I mean. Because Santa delivered this bike directly into my living room, just like he delivered everything else. And he came in through the chimney, obviously. (Which was always a miracle because we have a wood-burning stove instead of a real fireplace and we kept the door closed. But Santa was a freaking miracle anyway, so who needs to bother with tiny details like that?) However, driveway dust is NOT miraculous. In any way. It meant that my bike had been in the driveway, which defies flying sleighs. And that's when I knew. I knew that Santa wasn't real. This bike's delivery was not magic enough. It was all a hoax.

And it was a freaking awesome hoax that I would milk for years to come. Because, I had a younger sister, who unbeknownst to me had already found out the same truth I had. But neither of us told each other. And so the Santa ruse continued. Until we were like 20. Obviously, we knew it wasn't Santa. And my parents knew that we knew it wasn't Santa. But it was tradition. And Santa presents should not be wrapped. So every year, when we woke up and drug ourselves into the living room, there on either side of the Christmas tree were our Santa Presents. Beautifully arranged and set just so. The year my mom tried to do away with Santa altogether, there was an uprising, an enormous protest from my sister and me.

I'm not sure what's happening this year at the Homestead. Haven't been home for Christmas in a while. This year, I'm spending Christmas in Jeju with Kenny. But maybe next year, we'll be in the log cabin on Poplarwood. And maybe, just maybe, Santa will show up. Because sometimes, even after you don't believe, he just keeps on coming.

Christmas Blog Party: Year of the Bike Edition

It was the year of the bike!

This is when Santa existed no longer! I loved Christmas. For all the wrong reasons. Christmas was nothing to me when I was little, other than presents and good food. Christmas was all about me and that is why I loved it. The meaning behind Christmas meant nothing to me. I sat through my mother's Bible reading every year and rolled my eyes to myself thinking "Jesus is cool...but Santa is better." Though my mom tried her hardest to make Christmas meaningful, I had nothing to do with all that.

Christmas Eve would come and the clock would slow down, I swear. The Christmas Eve service lasted too long, and I would kick my leg constantly. Even when my mom put her hand on my leg and gave me the stink eye, I didnt stop. She would whisper, "Everyone on this pew can feel that!" Still didn't stop! How could you sit still when in mere hours Santa was going to come down your chimney? The service would FINALLY end and Mom would want to chat. I mean, how can you hold idle conversation when presents are coming? "Let's go Mom! If we aren't home, Santa will pass the log cabin on Poplarwood Road!" 

When the garage door would rise and we were finally home, the anticipation grew. It was almost time. I would put my pajamas on and get on the couch and watch TV. Every year I would try and pretend to fall asleep on the couch so my mom would leave me there and I would catch a glimpse of the jolly man with the belly full of jelly. But every year, Deb would say to me, "Holly, you are not asleep. Get up and get in the bed." Reluctantly, I would rise from the couch cushion, give a dramatic little kick and sigh, and drag my feet to bed.

Each year, I NEVER slept. If I did, it was short and fitful. I would sit in the bed and listen very carefully to hear the sound of hooves and bells. Though I never heard these things, he never disappointed. I would get up around oh, 4 in the morning. I would go and wake up my parents in the back bedroom, jumping up the bed yelling, "It's Christmas! I think Santa came! It's Christmas!" My mom would groan and mumble, "Seriously?" Finally there was a rule made: if you can't see the sun, you can't wake anybody up.

The year of the bike, I went to bed with the dramatic kick and sigh and laid in waiting. But this year, I heard a noise. However, it was not hooves or bells, or the jolly laugh of the fat man. It was a low moan and a shake of the christmas tree. Excited, I rose. And then stopped. Should I really see Santa?? I mean, is it allowed? Will he be mad at me? I heard another noise and could not help myself. I swore to be very quiet and tiptoe and only see Santa with one eye, because the other would still be hidden behind the door frame. That way, Santa couldnt be mad, because he would never know I saw him. As I very quietly leaned ever so slightly around the door frame I gasped! What is this? This is no man with a red suit. This is my mother's behind covered in her pink bath robe as she bends over my brand new bike. Wait. BRAND NEW BIKE? OH YEAH!!! Wait, Wait, don't get side tracked....WHERE. IS. SANTA?? Why isn't he setting my bike under the tree?? Is it true? Could Kevin McCallisters brother Buzz be correct??? NO SANTA??? Does this mean Rudolph is a lie too?? And the elfs? How could this be? I'm so sad...but I still get presents, so does it matter who they come from? No. I guess it doesn't. As long as presents really exist, I'm cool. Okay, the panic has subsided!

So, as my mom continues to grab presents and I continue to duck my head inside my room when she is turned toward the hallway, I watch how hard she works to set things just so. And I am thankful she loves me and cares how the presents are set when my sister, with her bedhead, and me, with Grover in tow, walk down the hallway into the living room.

The dream of Santa was a sad one to lose. I felt I needed to keep this revelation to myself so next year I would still get presents from this ‘Santa’ And I carried on this charade for a long time. Even when my mother knew I didn't believe, I refused to let her wrap all the presents. Some still had to be unwrapped and presented as from Santa.  Even at 19, Santa still came to the log cabin on Poplarwood Road.

Holly (aka The Sisda) lives in Tennessee with her husband Matt, and her three stinky fatty dogs, Billie Jean, Semper Fi, and Stella. She annoyed the crap out of her sister for about 18 years and then they kind of chilled and have been more like friends for close to 4 years. She is an excellent story teller and should probably start her own blog. Right?

Christmas Blog Party: T.S. Eliot and a Scooter Edition

Santa Dies in a Scooter Accident or My T.S. Eliot Christmas


“Then at dawn we came down to a temperate valley,
Wet, below the snow line, smelling of vegetation […]
And arrived at evening, not a moment too soon
Finding the place; it was (you may say) satisfactory.”
--T.S. Eliot, “Journey of the Magi” (lines 21 & 22, 30-31)


The “satisfactory” feeling in the quote above reflects the mendacity the magi (wise men) felt when finding the inn where Baby Jesus lay. The moment changed them, but it was a silent moment on a silent night. Oddly, the events that change us are often inconspicuous. No bells. No whistles. No soulful guitar solos. Just the quiet acknowledgment of another spot in time.

And that mute “satisfaction” mirrors my realization of Santa’s non-existence. I can’t remember the exact age, but I remember being in a friend’s garage the day after Christmas.


“All this was a long time ago, I remember,
And I would do it again” (lines 32-3)


Josh: “Nick, do you believe in Santa because I have something to show you that will change that.”
Me: No!...Well, I dunno. Maybe.
Josh: Okay, so do you remember that scooter we were using as a sled yesterday? The one Santa gave me? Well, look what I found!

My friend pulls out an empty cardboard box. The box has a picture of our scooter-turned-sled on it, a clear indication it was store bought. The receipt was even stapled to it. I’d already begun doubting Santa’s life; he was teetering on the verge of existence. But in that moment, Santa died. He died quietly and satisfactorily. Josh and I glanced at the box, looked back at each other, shrugged, turned around, and left the garage.

We, like the magi, “returned to our places” (line 40).


“Birth or Death? There was a Birth, certainly,
We had evidence no doubt. I had seen birth and death” (lines 36-7)


Santa dies for everyone. We all have that “spot in time.” But that’s okay. For he is always alive for someone somewhere, reborn in children from the ashes of parental myths. That is why when discussing Santa—as when discussing poetry—you always use the present tense.

Nick blogs about his teaching experiences at nickxsavestheday. Nick met Danielle the summer of 2006 over Nabokov's Pale Fire, invited her to a book club, and the nerdfest has continued ever since.