Jack Frost nipping at my butt. . .

(Note: a large branch of one of our trees snapped under the weight of the ice)

After falling last week on the slippery, wet deck out back while grilling my chicken satay for the cookie party, I have been walking around very trepidatiously. It has been about eight years since I have fully fallen on my ass, and it was as shocking as it was painful. So whereas two weeks ago I walked through the world with the sure footing of a giant, I am now forced to check and recheck each foot hold as if each step toward my car (or the bathroom) was all that kept me from dangling from life's wintery summit. I say this so you may appropriately understand the caution I exercised this morning as I walked out onto the front porch to take pictures of the crystal ice world that was once our front yard. I pressed open the screen, and with the camera in one hand and my weariness in the other, I set out to take pictures of the elusive(and ever so beautiful) icicles, which have formed along our rain gutters overnight. No sooner had my first step made contact with the ground than I was lying spread eagle in nearly the full splits, my ass and one foot outside on the ice, and the other foot underneath and behind me inside the house. As the cold icy wetness seeped through the seat of my pants, I pondered how I would even be physically able to get up from this horribly painful contortion. I calmly took a breath and snapped a few pictures from my circus pose, before turning off the camera and tossing it to safety inside. I then, having sublimated my humiliation, through a process I do not even wish to describe, flopped around on the icy ground for several minutes, until finally I was forced to just shimmy onto my stomach and army crawl it back into the house before getting up. So here I sit, cold, wet, and sore, still no closer to capturing my beloved icicles on film.