mud pies to medicine: Snow Day

Saturday, January 21, 2012

Snow Day

If I was a kid, this would be the worst winter ever. Late January and still no snow. And the day it snows is a weekend and 3 inches will be cleared up my Saturday night with no hopes of a day off from school As a skier, this is still the worst winter ever. Buying a season pass to a ski resort is like entering the lottery. Some seasons, it's the best decision you ever made and you ski for 2 weeks straight on a pass that pays for itself in 5 visits. That was two years ago. The American Ski Company must have known about the amazing value I got 2 years ago. I'm guessing that the exact moment that my parents purchased a season pass for me, someone decided that it would not snow this winter. And so, here I am, with a season pass and I've skied one day this season. ::Throws herself pity party:: #firstworldproblems I know, I know. Anyhow. I was supposed to be in Vermont this weekend but somehow my parents ended in Miami, Vermont got snow, and I am sitting in an apartment in the burbs of Jersey while my class mates tear up White Face in Lake Placid. "I'm not bitter at all!" she says quite sarcastically.

So here is my picture of snow in the burbs. My attempt to sprinkle rose petals on snow was thwarted by wind and the fact that the snow wasn't really powdery. Powdery snow is great for photography.

#19 Not skiing

And since I needed a way to procrastinate and the snow wasn't too photography worthy I played around with the natural light of my living room, pinterest eye make up tutorials and (failed) no heat curls tutorials.

#20 Still not Skiing

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The inspiration you ask?

I miss making mud pies. There is this huge rock in my front yard. To call it a rock really does it a dishonor. It is a boulder, brought home by my father on a huge dump truck after he blasted it out of a work site. My mom one day told me that even though it is nearly 2.5 feet high, 6 feet long, and 2.5 feet wide, that it was, in fact, only half-showing. The scientist inside of me was disbelieving and set out to get some proof. Clad in a dress, bow in my hair, and my best accessory, a shovel, I trudged outside ready to prove my mother wrong. That is when the digging began. I dug, and dug, and dug, and nearly all 3.5 feet of Danielle fit in that hole when I had reached the bottom of the rock. That became my digging spot, my mud pie kitchen. Each day it was dug, and each evening it was filled back in. Sometimes the holes were small, sometimes they were enormous, and most days the hole was turned into my mud mixing bowl with that rock as my counter. The novelty never wore off. The ebb and flow of my childhood was, in many ways, measured by the ever-changing depth of that hole in the front yard, the hole that never really disappeared even each day after it was filled in. Even though the grass has grown back in that spot, there still remains, an indentation, the scars of a childhood well lived and the disbelieving scientists I have always been.

So, you ask me why I want to be a doctor? I do not want to be a doctor. I want to open a mud pie bakery with the cash register on that rock in my front yard. But, somehow, I doubt I would stay in business long, for the world seems to have lost its taste for mud pies. I guess being a doctor will have to do.