Category Archives: Holidays/Seasons

Our Family Christmas Letter – Volume 2

Dear friends and family (yes, that includes you, high school friend who I haven’t seen or spoken to since 1986…remember me?),

So, here we are again. Christmas time. Why does it seem like I just vacuumed up the last pine needle from last year? Because I did. Literally. Just in time for those little bastards to make another mess all over my wood floors, mocking me from their safe little crevice haven. Just so you know, I’m coming back as a pine needle in my next life. Those guys have the shelf life of a Twinkie. And who doesn’t want to live as long as a Twinkie? Wait…let me rethink that.

I am sitting here, sipping my irish cream, making up every excuse in the book to not start decorating. I mean, I love the look and feel of my halls all decked out, but I just don’t want to do it. Besides, sipping irish cream is so much more fun.

But let’s face it, after I bust my back from lugging up the 500 pounds of Christmas shit from the basement, most of it leftover from my mother’s leftovers but have to put up because otherwise The Kid will throw a fit and say something stupid like, “but it’s a tradition,” I’m damn exhausted.

Why the hell can’t someone invent a magic elf to come and perform some holiday decorating magic? You know like that little Elf on the Shelf guy but not as creepy. Or annoying.

C’est la vie or feliz navidad or whatever.

Anyway, I know you are all dying to know what our little family has been up to in the last 12 months. You can take a breath now, because I’m going to tell you.

The Kid is great, awesome, smart, healthy, lovely, sweet as pie. She’s perfect in every way. Oh, who am I kidding? She’s 16 years old. Did you hear me? Sixteen. Sure, she’s smart, healthy (thank you God) and she is lovely looking. She has good genes after all. And she can be sweet as pie. You know, when she needs something or has the stomach bug or she knows she’s in trouble. Otherwise, the only pie she’s as sweet as is a pecan number left out in the sun for 14 days.

I will say she has the gift of negotiation otherwise known as “taking advantage of her parents.” Kudos to her. Damn. If I could have gotten away with that when I was her age, I would have the gift too. Oh, how times have changed.

She got her license a couple of months back. Sure, it makes my life easier. I love sending her down to the corner for bread or milk or something I forgot at Shop Rite because that’s what I do. Forget stuff. But the level of stress that comes with having a child out driving a 2 ton machine? It’s high. You think that time when you lost your kid for 40 seconds in the mall and you were pretty sure she was stolen and already halfway to Mexico was bad? This has got nothing on that.

God bless all mothers of teens. Why can’t we eat our young like they do in the wild? Because we’d get arrested. Stupid laws.

My Dear Husband is great. He is working hard. Keeping a roof over our heads so I don’t have to. He doesn’t have his motorcycle anymore because he had a little mishap. He is fine, thank goodness. His bike, not so much. I’m sad. Mainly because it doesn’t spend its winter in the living room as usual. Now I have to find something to put in that space. First world problems, what can I say. The man looks as damn good as he did in the last holiday letter I sent out. Can’t fatten him up, no matter how hard I try. It’s okay though, because I’ve done it for him. Fatten myself up, I mean.

As for me…I love keeping my sweet house and making sure order is maintained. Just call me Carol Brady. Oh wait, that bitch had a house maid who cooked, cleaned, did the laundry, grocery shopping and everything in between. Yes, I am a Carol wannabe. Because I actually hate all of the above mentioned bull crap. Instead, I live vicariously through her while watching old episodes of The Bunch on Nick At Nite. I have been known to salivate at the screen. And not because Mike is hot. Even though he’s dead now. Poor guy. Also, I guess it turns out he was probably more into Greg than Carol. I never knew.

We went to Hawaii over the summer. Jealous, are you? Well, don’t be. Because that’s a lie. But we did go to a luau-themed party. It was so much fun. I got to drink something alcoholic out of a plastic coconut. Probably the closest I’ll ever get to the real thing so I’ll take it. Hawaii? Maybe next year.

Well no. There won’t be a Hawaiian trip next year either because our kid is going to college the year after that and we will not be able to afford to drive to the outlet center let alone take a trip to paradise. So, we had to make a decision…exotic trip or educated kid. Unfortunately, the Kid wins, once again. Mainly because we don’t really want her mooching off of us for all of eternity. I know, it’s selfish of us.

That just about sums it up. We are happy, healthy and alive. What else could I hope for? Well, a live-in maid and a million bucks would be nice. But since there really is no such thing as a Magic Genie, I’ll have to settle for my Clorox Wipes and our water jug filled to the brim with coins. Hey wait. Think there’s a Hawaiian trip in there?

Sincerely,

Mo

Oh, and my family. Of course. Even though they were not harmed, or involved in the creation of this letter in any way.

Happy Thanksgiving. I’m Bringing the Ham.

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It is no secret that I am not a fan of cooking. Sure, I make dinner pretty much every night for my family. But that’s because if I don’t, they will starve, wind up eating crap or I will be talked about behind my back for being a terrible wife and mother and it’s bad enough that it takes me a month to clean my house so I figure I should do something that resembles some sort of domestic act.

I’ve had a running joke for 22 years about holiday cooking. I’m like a broken record this time of year. Especially if I run into a friend or acquaintance at the local Shop Rite. “So, Mo, are you cooking Thanksgiving dinner?” My answer starts out like this, “Umm, that would be a HELL NO!”  I then repeat for the 253rd time, verbatim, the only speech I made on my wedding day. The gist of my little speech? I basically made it very clear that I would never, ever host a holiday dinner EVER.

Last week, this exact thing happened. I saw a friend of mine ahead of me in line. “So, Mo, are you cooking Thanksgiving dinner?” My reply? See above. Of course this friend just laughed and laughed. But the woman behind me? She snapped her head in my direction and glared at me as if I had just fed my child some glass shards.

I risked a peek at her. Suddenly, I was a little ashamed and felt the need to make sure this stranger knew that I loved the holiday and even though I won’t host, I am willing to help out in any way I can. For some reason, I thought I should rectify myself in front of this person who I have never seen before in my life and who I will probably never see again.

Even though I felt like Scrooge lost in the wrong month, my feelings of regret were short-lived. By the time I paid for my groceries, the exchange was forgotten about. Besides, I stand behind my nearly quarter of a century declaration, DAMMIT!

The other day, my sister-in-law, the same sister-in-law who has been hosting Thanksgiving for the past umpteen years — bless her heart — called and asked me to bring a ham. I swallowed hard, my heart rate doing double-time. I think I even broke out in a little sweat.

A ham? I don’t even know how to buy one, let along cook one.

Twenty-two years into my marriage and I have yet to prepare one of these things. I can slap down a couple of slices on some bread but that’s the extent of my experience with ham.

The problem is, every time I make some kind of meat dish, it winds up resembling more of a piece of shoe leather than something that you want to actually eat (I said I cook for my family, I didn’t say I was good at it).

The day she called me and asked for this thing called a “ham” was the day she put the life of our Thanksgiving dinner in my hands. It’s not my fault. Like I said, it’s not a secret.

I find comfort in knowing that there will be other options on the table. So, the meal will not be lost just because I feel the need to keep meat in the oven longer than necessary to prevent anything like E. coli or Salmonella from happening. After all, my heart is in the right place.

So, go forth my people and enjoy your Thanksgiving Day. May your turkey or ham or tofu be perfectly prepared. As for me, I will not be having the ham. I heard the cook isn’t very good.

My Wrapped Up Holiday Thoughts

Christmas In October Cartoon

What’s my problem? I mean, when am I going to get it through my thick middle-aged skull that Christmas starts in October? Before Halloween?

Why is it that every single year I blow my shit because I see Christmas decorations in Kohl’s? Or see a guy on a ladder applying lights on the big pine tree on the property of the local jeweler? Or see effing Christmas commercials on TV before Halloween has even happened. Every year. Like I’ve never seen it before. “Holy crap, is that Rudolph?” Surprise, surprise.

Can I at least enjoy the 3 Halloween decorations I put out for a couple of days? I mean, I am definitely not a lover of the holiday called Halloween, that’s no secret. But still. Give me a break.

Everyone is so quick to pull down those decorations though and I’ve always been happy about not having to look at them for all of eternity. Until I figured out why they are so quick to pull them down — to make room for their Christmas crap.

Christmas crap that is left up way too long. We get to drive around town looking at sagging, dead and sunburnt wreaths hanging on doors and windows until April. Deflated Santas and Reindeer lying in yards, even the life sucked out of them.

1ace59493697d4d541a38cadc9a3240fI totally love Christmas. It was a well loved and cherished holiday in my house growing up. My mom would put up those cheesy plastic popcorn figures of Rudolph and Santa.

Dad would meticulously place our million multi-colored blinking lights on the tree. But not before spending an afternoon testing every single one. Making sure they all worked. And if they didn’t? An afternoon often turned into two days because finding the one light that made the strand dead was like trying to find a needle in a haystack. Ahhh, those were the days.

But this was done after Thanksgiving.

Thanksgiving. One of my favorite holidays. Because, hello? Food. And sitting and drinking and relaxing and laughing with family. No stress. No shopping for months only to have all that work over within 32 seconds by eager and selfish children.

So, I’d like to enjoy that holiday too and not feel rushed with Christmas that is so overdone that by the time December 25th is here, it’s all I can do to keep myself from vomiting up jingle bells and reruns of holiday specials.

Where was I? Oh right, Christmas in October. Santa in the mall. In October. When he should be at the North Pole making presents for all the good little boys and girls of the world. When are our children going to smarten up to this process? How many times are they going to buy the whole, “oh, that’s one of Santa’s helpers” bit? Please.

Do you know when this all started? I’m not really sure. But they call it “Christmas Creep.” Because it’s creepy. Like Santa in October.

Now some retail establishments have gotten so greedy they think it’s a brilliant idea to open on Thanksgiving. A day when people should be with friends and family. You know, not shopping and definitely not working. There is plenty of time for that. Shame on you retail establishments. The ones who partake? You kinda suck.

I feel like I’m having a bit of road rage here. Except I’m calling it Holiday Creep Rage or HCR. I think I’ll go pour myself some spiked eggnog. Yes, eggnog. That is also available. But I don’t have a problem with that. Eggnog should seriously be sold all year round. That stuff is good. Especially when added to some rum. Which is what we all need to get through it all. So, ho ho ho. Merry Hallothanksmas.

Labor Day Equals Pineapple Juice?

This week’s writing prompt is brought to you (or me) by Mama Kat’s Writer’s Workshop. She wants me to describe what I did this Labor Day. So, here you go:

Labor Day weekend, to me, starts on Friday and runs all the way up through Monday (of course). I don’t usually work Fridays but I did last week because I traded one of my other days. Because something must have come up. Another of many millions of perks of My Job.

The Kid had field hockey practice until 4:30. Then Driver’s Ed until 8. So, I had to sit and behave and not have any wine because, well, drinking and driving don’t mix ever. But most especially if you have a kid that you need to pick up.

Friday. No score. No party. No fun. Damn kids.

Saturday was better. We had two parties on the calendar. The first one was an annual event thrown by good friends of ours. It’s always sure to be a great time, we can count on that. The host with the most at this annual party always serves pineapple infused vodka. I’ll get back to that in a minute.

The second one was a themed party. A “Redneck” party thrown by my brother-in-law and sister-in-law. This is also turning into an annual affair. Again, another great time.

I know you can't tell, but that's me.

I know you can’t tell, but that’s me.

Now getting back to the pineapple infused vodka. It’s delicious. And dangerous. I started out at the friend’s party drinking 2 glasses (maybe 3…okay 3) of the vodka. After about 5 hours we left there to go to my in-law’s party.

At that party, I drank two glasses of wine (no pineapple vodka because they didn’t have it, a blessing in disguise. They did have margaritas, my favorite, but I steered clear of them because vodka and tequila? Probably a “NO”). We stayed at this party for about 3 hours, then left to go home to our beddie-bye.

It’s late. I think I’m tired. On the way home, I get a text (or did I text her? Hmm.) from my friend with the vodka letting us know that they are still partying and if we’d like to come back.

Hells yes, of course. I am not one to turn away from a good time. Ever. I show up in my Redneck attire and guess what’s waiting for me? A nice cold glass of pineapple infused vodka. Also, it turns out I’m not tired at all suddenly.

I do not have one, but two more of these glasses of pineapple infused vodka for my enjoyment and everyone else’s because by now I’m three sheets to the wind (whatever the hell that means) and I’m at my best in the comedic sense, according to me. It’s a good thing I kept my clothes on.

Actually, I’m not known for doing that when I’ve had a few too many. Pee my pants? Snort a little? Dance up on a table or two? Say a little too much about just about anything? Sure. But the clothes, they always stay on. Pinky swear. But I may subject my peeps to something like this:

photo 2

This may or may not be my friend. Whoever this is has been dramatically changed to protect the innocent. Could it be Gene Simmons? Perhaps.

The night was a blur after — count ’em — 7 cups or something of alcoholic beverages in as little as 12 hours. Oh wait, that’s not so bad. That’s less than a drink an hour. And just so you know, I drank plenty of water in the in-between. In between what? Who knows. I just did. This I remember. Let’s just say I tried to pace myself. I really did.

Sunday was a day spent with The Kid watching old classics like The Breakfast Club (my fave) and Mean Girls (hers). It was a good thing too, because I needed the couch pillows to keep my head from spinning.

Sunday. I could say “bust” but it wasn’t totally because I spent it with my daughter watching movies. I ate nothing because a spinning head makes a girl nauseous. And I went to bed at 7pm. So let’s just call it a partial bust.

Monday. The actual day of no-Labor. Eh, let’s just say it was kind of a bust. I was still feeling a little funky (not horribly bad, I mean I could have mustered up the energy to do something, but glad I didn’t). There was a chance of rain, so we didn’t go on the boat. DH kept saying stuff like, “let’s do something” but then we didn’t because, well, I was still a little dizzy to think of anything and so was he I guess. Well, not dizzy. Just…I don’t know. I can’t answer that.

He did make a trip out to Kentucky Fried Chicken and came back with an extra treat called A Dozen Donuts. So, we ate our sorrows (or my sorrows for having too may pineapple vodkas that is not really juice even though it tastes like it) and I gained about a pound and a half past what I probably lost from not eating the day before.

Was the weight gain from the vodka? Maybe. But it was more likely the fried chicken, jelly donut and whatever went down the hatch on Saturday before the big spin. But it was good and it was fun and I don’t regret it. Except at my age, I really can’t hold my liquor like I used to. This I know to be fact.

So, there you have it.  Hope you all enjoyed your Labor Day. See you next year. Same place, same time, same freakin’ pineapple infused vodka I’m sure. Except next time I’ll only have 2 glasses. Maybe 3. Okay 4. Damn, do I love that stuff.

Mama’s Losin’ It

Adventures Abound

Last week I talked about our Summer Bucket List and the fact that we didn’t accomplish much. There was one thing that was not on there that actually did get accomplished.

Wait. Does that even count? Can I legitimately say that we accomplished something not on our bucket list? Hmm.

Anyway, that thing was Ziplining. I live in the Northeast. Close to New York. In the Catskills there is a Ziplining park that boasts the highest zipline in the entire country. Why did we go there? Because The Kid has been bugging us for forever.

zipline

And because we are nuts. DH is deathly afraid of heights and I really could have stayed home and read. Or written. Or endured drip drops of water in the same spot on my forehead for 7 hours straight.

It turns out there was not just one zipline. Or two. There were six. Six little adventures wrapped up into one. So, just in case you didn’t die the first time, you got five more chances.

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You can’t tell, but I’m freaking out.

What goes through the mind and out of the mouth and body of a 47 year old woman who is about to throw herself over 680 feet of open air? This:

  • What am I doing here? I am a 47 year old woman about to throw her body over 680 feet of open air. I should be home reading a book. Or writing. Or enduring Chinese Water Torture for 7 hours straight.
  • OMG, my heart. I think I may have a heart attack. Oh my god, I’m going to have a heart attack. (Me to guide as I’m about to jump: “umm, has anyone ever died of a heart attack up here?” I probably should have googled it because I didn’t believe him. I’m seriously surprised I didn’t have a heart attack.)
  • Pee. Yes, I peed. Just a little. That’s what happens when a 47 year old woman tries to fly. Maybe it was the high altitude? Or perhaps it’s because I no longer have much control over my pelvic floor muscles.
  • So, how much would it hurt if the cable snapped? Would I die mid-air of that heart attack I was afraid of? Or would it be on impact? There are a lot of trees though. Think that would soften the blow? Superman. Where is Superman when I need him?
  • The guide said not to hang upside down because we will fall out of the harness to our deaths. Sure okay. I’ll try not to hang upside down. I’m not a monkey. I will not play monkey at 680 feet in the air. I promise. Oh god. I hope I don’t accidentally play monkey.
  • Put my body into a fetal position? I haven’t been in a fetal position since I was a fetus.
  • zipliningOHMYGOD. I didn’t get all the way across. I’m just hanging here over 600 feet of air in the damn mountains. Is it because I couldn’t get into a fetal position? Who do they think I am? Nadia Comaneci? Geez, a sloth is more flexible than I am. And faster.
  • I totally love that DH is more afraid than I am. I got this. OHMYGOD. I got stuck again.

And because we survived that, we decided we were total adventure jet-setters and went on another little adventure. It was a bit more tame. Although there could have been sharks. Really, there totally could have been. This wasn’t on our bucket list either. Or was it? I wouldn’t know because I threw it in a fire.

paddle boarding

To be honest with you, this is more my speed:

margarita on the beach

Next time, I’m beaching it. Like a whale, but with a margarita and a book. And well, a little less blubber.

This was a writing prompt from Mama Kat’s Writer’s Workshop: Write a post inspired by the word “Adventure.”

Mama’s Losin’ It

The Summer Bucket List of Reality

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The summer is almost over. We are in the absolute final week of it. Sigh. Every end-of-spring, my family sits down and creates a Summer Bucket List. It’s really not very hard to accomplish, but somehow every summer, it doesn’t get accomplished.

Well, maybe some of it sometimes. But mostly not and it makes me feel real bad. Right now this list has become nothing short of some kindling for my wintertime home fires.

So, here is our SBL and what it really means:

  1. Go to the beach, like a lot =  We did go to the beach. Once. Also, I accidentally got wet setting up the sprinkler for the kids at My Job.
  2. Hiking = I went for some walks in my neighborhood. But I did that alone. No family involved. I did ask if they wanted to go though. They said no. Their loss.
  3. Kayaking = Umm, does talking about doing it, going into the garage to look at our kayaks and then saying, “let’s go kayaking this weekend” but don’t actually go, count?
  4. Amusement Park particularly Six Flags = I’ve been going for a ride with The Kid at the wheel almost every day since June. That’s approximately 4 days at Six Flags. Maybe not as fun, but still an adventure. Amusement parks also do not cause gray hairs. Or wrinkles.
  5. Go to “Puppies & Kittens” – I don’t know how this got on here and why I would even allow it. It must have been an afterthought when I wasn’t looking. Puppies and kittens are cute, but that place smells like pee.

So, my big question is can we rollover what we don’t use? Or do we get a do-over? Summer just always seems to be over in the blink of an eye.

Winter? That bastard hangs around for an eternity. Mother Nature sucks. Or is senile. Whatever. It’s just all so wrong.

 

10 Reasons Why I HATE Walmart

walmartHate.  It’s a very strong word.  I was brought up to never use that word.  I was and am never to hate anyone.  But I’m getting a pass here because Walmart isn’t a person.  It is a thing.  And I HATE this thing.  All caps.  I used to dislike Walmart immensely.  Until a couple of days ago.  On Easter Sunday, a day that is all about faith, love and celebration, I decided I would turn my disdain into pure, unadulterated hatred.

Sure, it’s partially my fault.  I was assigned a salad to bring to a family Easter gathering.  But I’m only partially at fault.  I’m sure of it.  Anyway, as I’m walking out the door (I went solo because The Kid was home sick with tonsillitis, strep throat and a fever and DH won the job of caretaker), I realized that I completely forgot the dressing for the salad.  It’s a salad I make all the time and that I like to use a specific dressing for.  But I forget this dressing.  Why and uh, Duh?

I’m an ass.  Immediately, I thought it would just require a quick stop into Shop Rite and I could be on my way.  But no.  Shop Rite was closed.  I ran into the Panera next door hoping they would sell me some dressing.  No, they wouldn’t.  Bastards.  Oh, there’s Target.  Target never closes.  This I know because that was the place of My Retail Job for over 9 months and they never close.  Guess what?  They do on Easter.  Huh.  Xpect Discounts — nope.  Super Stop and Shop?  No no NO.

As I pass the Walmart, I see that this lovely is open.  I am flooded with relief mixed with complete and utter dread.  From the road, it appeared that every Tom, Dick and Harry in the Free World PLUS each creature, living and dead, of and in the entire Universe is there.

After fighting off and pushing through a zillion people, I find the dressing aisle.  Of course, I have to settle on whatever dressing they have which was NOT the dressing I wanted, but whatever.  So there I am, standing in line at Walmart with my one item.

And here is why I now HATE, not just loathe, but HATE Walmart:

  1. The fact that they are the only store within miles open on Easter really sucks poppycock.  I should love them for this, but I don’t.
  2. The fact that I have to push through a zillion people just to get a freaking 2 dollar bottle of salad dressing.  And then stand on the stupid zillion person line to purchase this 2 dollar bottle of wine.  Oops, did I just say wine?  Silly me.  I mean dressing…makes me want to…um, drink a bottle of wine?  Yes, indeed.
  3. There were plenty of registers open, but every line snaked halfway to the back of the store.  Do you know why?  See #4.
  4. The guy on my register was in absolutely no rush.  Nope.  Apparently, he didn’t have to rush home to an Easter dinner with family.  And no amount of staring, bitching or pleading was going to make him go any faster.  “Oh, this is a lovely dish towel…beep.  This is a great price for these socks…beep…”  MOVE IT ALONG, MAN!
  5. I have black and blues from all the millions of times the little girl behind me hit me with her pile of $1 chocolate bunnies and fruit snacks.  She apologized the first time, but continued to do it.  STAND BACK CHICK OR SOMEONE IS GOING TO GET HURT.  I DON’T CARE THAT YOU’RE TEN!
  6. It was a day for children to be let loose in the store.  Not only are the children loose but they like to carry loose change.  Only loose change for these certain three boys who were buying a crapload of candy for themselves.  Yup.  I’m pretty sure my register guy counted it correctly after the third attempt.  “Two dollars and fifty-three cents, two dollars and fifty-four cents, two dollars and fifty…oops, where was I?”
  7. Why do people insist on bringing more than 8 items to the Express checkout lane?  It’s just not fair.  Honestly, if I weren’t in such a rush, I would have snitched.  Probably.  Well, maybe. Umm, most likely not.  I’m passive aggressive like that.
  8. Walmart did not…repeat…did not carry MY salad dressing.  Had I have known, I would have grabbed one of the 40 bottles of unopened dressing in my pantry.  But don’t feel bad, Mister Walmart.  Totally not your fault.
  9. Their parking lot blows chunks and I can never find my car.  And the fact that I had to park a mile away from the store entrance, does not help their case.
  10. This post should be called “9 Reasons Why I HATE Walmart” because that’s really all I got.

When I reached my sister-in-law’s house and ranted about my holy hell Walmart experience, she simply said, “you should have called me.  I’m sure I have salad dressing here.”  Oh.  Rant over.  Next year I won’t forget the salad dressing.  Lesson learned.  I hope.

Cold vs. Hot

COLD HOTPart 3 of My Reader’s Suggestions.  This one is about Cold vs. Hot.  And what I prefer.  Well, I like my wine room temperature…oh wait.  I don’t think that’s what she meant.

I know this is a really dumb time for me to bring this up because everyone from Timbuktu to the North Pole are freezing their asses off, but what is best?  Being hot or being cold?

Personally, you know, for me?  I’ve always thought hot.  I have had this conversation with myself before.  For years, I’ve been having this conversation.  And even though it can get pretty damn hot around here in August, I feel like there is some way to cool off.

You can take off your clothes and run through a sprinkler.  Jump in the lake and blow a fan on yourself (well, I wouldn’t recommend doing them together because you can electrocute yourself and probably die).  You can take a cold shower and run an ice cube on your face (this you can do together – you will not probably die).  Sleep on the basement floor and sit under a shady tree drinking soda pop (that’s what I do, don’t you?).

I don't know.  I look kinda miserable cold.  Don't you think?

I don’t know. I look kinda miserable when I’m cold. Don’t you think?

When it’s super cold out?  Well, you can stay inside and hide under a down comforter all winter.  You know, hibernate?  But when it’s super cold outside and you have to actually go outside?  I don’t care if you are an eskimo, there is no trick short of duct taping every inch of whatever to keep the dang cold out.

I can put on three layers of wool socks and my snow boots that promise to keep my feet warm in below freezing temps and my toes will still feel like they are suffering from hypothermia after 10 minutes.  My parka is awesome, but on those freaking bone chilling days, even that doesn’t work.  Forget about gloves.  Those mothers are just useless.

The cold permeates through every window.  Under every door.  When I’m in my car and I lower the temperature a smidge, and I mean a smidge, my car feels like the inside of an ice ball after 3 minutes.  Of course, if you know what the inside of an ice ball feels like.  I happen to know because I LIVE IN ONE!!!

I'm feeling pretty damn hot here.  Phew.  But sure do look happier than when I'm cold.

I’m feeling pretty damn hot here. Phew. But sure do look happier than when I’m cold.

So, I guess I like being hot better.  Five months until August.  Let’s have this conversation then, shall we?  If my memory serves me right, I’m pretty sure I was cursing up the sun and wishing for winter.  I may have even done the Winter Dance.

Oh sorry, my bad.  Don’t worry, I can start doing the Summer Dance.  Oh wait.  Look where that got us.  Never mind.  I’ll just sit here with my room temperature wine, down comforter and cable TV until the sun comes out and melts all the snow.  See you in June.

Oh Pool Boy, Another Margarita Over Here…I’m On Brain-cation

Look, I know I’m not alone when I say that I am so damn sick of this ever-loving winter that seems to be droning on and on and on.  I can’t seem to look out the window without seeing a flake fall from the sky.  And the piles of snow?  Really.  Where are we supposed to put it all?  Is there a snow dump we don’t know about?

The sky just keeps vomiting snow.  We are in some serious danger of drowning in the shit.  Shit.  Yes, I said it.  Because that’s what it looks like after mere hours after it stops.  The white turns brown and gets all over our cars, our boots, our pants.  I have permanent snow shit on the back of a brand new pair of slacks I recently splurged on.  I even tried getting out the snow poo with OxyClean.  It didn’t work.  I may send Mother Nature the dry cleaning bill.  And charge her extra for pain and  suffering.

I can see you all rolling your eyeballs at me.  “Shut up already.  We know you are annoyed.  You’ve said it a thousand times in the last month.  Embrace it, lady.”  Well, guess what?  I don’t want to embrace it.  I’m done embracing it.  Besides, I’m not a hugger.  Okay, well that’s not entirely true.  I am.  Sometimes.

Which brings me to my next thought…vacation.  I want one.  I don’t care what I have to do to get myself one.  I’m not talking about a weekend in Maine.  Or 4 days in the Poconos.  I’m talking full on Caribbean island I don’t care where as long as there are 80 degree days, trade winds, white sand, the ocean and a drink boy.  Or drink girl for that matter.  As long as he/she is capable of carrying a margarita on a tray without spilling a drop.  I’ll tip generously, I promise.  The only ice I want to see from here on out is the ice in my drink.  Or I may lose my mind.

Am I going on vacation?  No.  There’s school for The Kid.  Work for DH.  And me?  Well, I’m kind of free but no one is available to take me.  The only vacation I’m going on is the vacation inside my head.  It’s not that bad.  If I sit in the window facing due West at about 2:26pm with a pair of sunglasses on I do a pretty good impression of the summertime me sitting on a beach.  Accompanied by palm trees, salty air and seagulls.

Except that would be a margarita and I would be glasses of the shaded kind.

My brain-cation sunny spot.  Except that would be a margarita and I would be wearing glasses of the shaded kind.

Unfortunately, the sun has to be out so my mind vacation doesn’t happen often.  But when it does, boy is there a party up in there.  Who wants to join me?  I’ll bring the tequila.

This post was inspired by Mama Kat’s Writer’s Workshop.  The word “Vacation”… 

Mama’s Losin’ It

Snow Day Fun In a Handbasket

When did I start to hate snow?  Like really, really hate it?  Probably yesterday.  Seriously.  I complain about the stuff, but secretly I enjoy a good snow day.  I mean, if I don’t have to go anywhere.  Or shovel it.  Or play in it.  Or stand outside.  Or touch it.

All was fine and dandy with the world, until DH had the bright idea to help him shovel the 200,000 pounds of snow off of the deck.  Some crap about the weight blah blah collapsing blah blah blah.  If you’ve been to my house and had the pleasure of enjoying a margarita on my deck when it is a balmy summer evening, then you know that my deck is just about as big as the smallest island of Hawaii.  What’s it called?  Kahoolawe?  Yeah, I just looked that up.  And I am exaggerating a little.  Obviously.  But it is big.  My deck.

A teeny of the deck from hell BEFORE the big lift

A teeny portion of the deck from hell BEFORE the big lift

You know that expression that you bit off more than you can chew?  Yeah, well, I just took a huge chunk out of Antarctica.  And it wasn’t going down.  DH was helping me.  Then he left to rake snow off the roof so we didn’t have another episode of ice damming.  And he raked the snow off the boat.  And he snow blowed the driveway.  And he snow blowed the walkway.  And shoveled the front stoop.  In other words, he was busy.

When I realized I was probably going to have to finish the job alone, I started to cry.  Not the “I’m sad because my goldfish just died” kind of cry.  It was the “holy freaking hell, this is the most frustratingly awful thing ever and I want to just throw myself over the edge of this deck and put myself out of total and complete misery now this very minute” kind of cry.  And I was dropping the “F” bomb every 30 seconds.  I might have to go to confession to wash my soul.

This wasn’t fluffy, fun, nice, sweet angel snow.  This was something the devil sent.  The top 5 inches was ice.  And a shovelful of snow felt like I was lifting half a car.  Every muscle in my arms were screaming.  My back felt like it was going to split.  And both my knees were starting to crack under the pressure.  Yeah, my good knee too.  And when I looked around, I felt like I hadn’t accomplished a thing.  Not a damn-friggin’ thing.  True story.

To make matters worse, I realized half way through it (at about hour #2) that I never stocked up on wine.  I had no wine.  Not that I NEEDED wine.  But  I WANTED wine.  And I deserved it dammit.  So, it was at that moment that I was going to brave those deadly snow plows and ice balls and crazy wind-blown tree branches and walk my butt down to my neighbor’s house to borrow some (I’ll gladly pay you Tuesday for some wine today).  The walk there and back is probably close to a half a mile.  I didn’t care.  And I knew she had it because they are prepared for an apocalypse.  Or in this case, Snow-mageddon.

I was dripping wet.  Not from sweat although there was plenty of that as well.  But it was sleeting/raining/snowing and my parka was not keeping me dry.  My hair was a mass of frozen icicles and my nose…well, let’s just say it’s hard to tell what is coming out of your nose holes when your face is suffering from hypothermia.  Remember the cart attendant at Shop Rite?  Yeah, that.

That teeny portion AFTer the big lift

That teeny portion AFTER the big lift

So, now I was down to a smallish but biggish ovally mound.  As I was standing there staring at it because I did not have one bit of energy left in my little biceps to lift one more smidgeon of freaking snow off of that deck, DH came around the corner and had mercy on me.

My leftover mound

My leftover mound

It was then that I realized I could not take another step.  Even if it was to get some red medicine that can only be opened with a cork screw.  So, I sat my wet ass in my car and literally slid down the road.  I stood on my neighbor’s front step and eagerly accepted her gift.  Not one, but two bottles of wine.  Thank you.  You are my savior.

When I got home, I took a 150 degree shower, poured that very well-deserved glass of wine, sat on the couch and fell into a deep, dreamless coma.  That is what I did on our snow day.  The End.

snow wine

My borrowed reward