I am head over heels for this guy. Almost seven years into it, and he still looks at me like this:

And this, which, for a whimsy-girl, is especially important:

He's just so damn cute. What's a girl to do? Let's just say I've gotten used to the feel of flutter-bys in my stomach.

True love, baby. Dig it.

I should have been prepared. I mean, I should have known something was up when the unseasonably cold winds started blowing Monday afternoon. But no, I went to sleep in ignorance, failing to recognize Jack Frost's fingerprints, even as he tapped at my window.

If I haven't mentioned already, we're in hustle-mode, preparing for our photo shoot, scheduled for tomorrow. Where Women Create is coming to beautiful, bohemian Taos to snap up some Duirwaigh inspiration for their magazine. And this is crunch season for us. From August until November, Silas and I are ususally buried under a humongous pile of calendar and greeting card deadlines, and this year is no different. So taking time to prune the potted flower garden that is our backyard, hang fabrics who've long sat in boxes, re-upholster the roof of our Balinese horse cart that died in last year's snow storm and actually buy, and place, the rugs we've been looking at since 2007 to cover our concrete floors, was, and is, a stretch. We just don't have the time. But somehow? We made the time. (And bless her, Mernie, my mother who has been visiting since July, has pitched in to make all the difference. Thanks, wacko!)

So when I awoke on Tuesday morning to discover Jack Frost's nasty little fingerprints all over my darling geraniums, not to mention the petunias and the marigolds, my heart just broke. Jack and I are mostly on good terms. As a native Floridian, I pined for him all my life, imagining shopping for Christmas trees in something other than Bermuda shorts and a suntan. I always hoped to live somewhere, anywhere, where winter didn't fall on a Tuesday.

But now? I just wanna stomp all over Jack's frosty mug with my pointiest pair of boots. Little wanker, he ate up all the blossoms in my garden. Let's just say it was adorably picturesque when I went to sleep Monday night and now? Ugh. It's the "before" photo on a Miracle Grow ad.

And I should have known, when that happened, that the damage wasn't done. I had that feeling in my stomach. You know the one. The feeling that alerts you to an oncoming storm, or a bad accident on the highway. And this morning I got the call. The editor of the magazine has a family crisis and cannot make do the shoot. She's actually not going to be able to come to New Mexico at all, so we won't be meeting tomorrow. All gussied up with no place to go, we're all (me, my Mernie, and my husband Silas) lookin' at each other this morning like "Whaaaat?"

Hey, don't cry for me Argentina. The mag is sending a photographer from Santa Fe next week, so we will be getting our close up. But meanwhile, it's all dead flowers and deadlines. (And lonely Balinese horse carts).

Oh, and have I mentioned my attempts at rescuing the plants themselves? My once-clean and organized studio is now covered, literally, covered, in potted plants. But that's another story, worthy of photos.

...stay tuned... 

If you'd have asked me a year ago, did I ever think it was possible to fall in love with a mouse, I'd have laughed, hard. Kind of like the time I laughed in the first grade lunchroom and power-shot milk through my nose all over Heather Troxell's new dress.

But thirty three years later I am not laughing. Well, I am, but at myself and the absurdity of my love affair. This mouse - my mouse - who's just turned four months old and lives inside my pocket is a testament to opposites attracting. Could there be a more unlikely pair? Little mouse and brazen woman? Contemplating unlikely inter-species relationships yesterday, I was reminded of the moment in An American Tail where Fievel meets Tiger, a big fluffy orange cat, and they become the unlikeliest of friends.

I feel alot like Tiger these days, with a little Fievel tucked in my shirt. He nestles against my skin all day long, sleeping, then wakes to wash his face and whiskers, eats peanuts and sunflower seeds from my fingers, and then goes to play in his Mousie Dream Home all night while I sleep. 

I always LOVED the scene in American Tail where Fievel meets Tiger and they sing "We're a Duo." I've used that song many times in my life to describe unlikely friendships. And now, with this little guy asleep on my shoulder, I can't get it out of my head. Let's sing! All together now!

Tg: I can tell,
we've got an awful lot,
in common,
even though,
we look as different as can be!
We don't even have to try,
to see things eye to eye,
it just comes to us, naturally!
Come to think of it I think we fit together,
playing cat and mouse won't get us, very far!
There's no need to fued and fuss,
when it isn't really us,
Let's you and me be who we are.

We're a duo,
a duo,
a pair of lonely ones who were meant to be a two!
Oh, a duo,
it's true-o,
wherever we go, we're going me and you!

So for those of you who saw my post last night on Facebook, you'll know that, for me, today is Christmas morning! I stayed up late last night writing my first query letter to a literary agent, in hopes of scoring an agent and my first official memoir-book deal. It felt so right--so incredibly attuned--I got all tingly. Then I got psyched. Then I had to put Kan'nal on iTunes and dance my brains out. (They're back in this morning and I am grateful. My brains, that is. Speaking of brains, is the term 'brain' or 'brains'? What is the official plural?). 

It all felt like Christmas eve 1975 when I was six years and anticipating Santa's delivery of a genuine cardboard life-size Holly Hobby playhouse. Santa didn't disappoint, and thirty some-odd years later, I don't think he will this time, either. I can see him approaching with an agent and a contract in his big 'ole napsack. And is it just me? Or is that Oprah's microphone in his left hand? (Or is he just happy to see me? I did not just go there.)

My dear friend and fellow Duirwaigh-conspirator, Aimee, happened to be online last night, so I let her read the letter. This is her response:

It's the 9th inning, bases loaded. The crowd falls into a restless hush as Sullins saunters to the bat. Hotdogs go unbitten. Drinks unslurped. There is a collective breath held as she taps her shoes, lifts her bat, sticks out her booty, and levels her fairytale eye at the pitcher. The pitcher spits, winds up the ball....throws a scorcher....and... CRACK!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! HOME RUN! HOME RUN!!! OH THE HUMANITY!!!!!!

What can I say? I loves me some Aimee. Even her name is fun. When she does something wonderful I say "Yay! Aimee!" which has been shortened to "Yaimee!" which sounds a lot like "Yay! Me!"

Does it get any more win/win than that?