Snow Time

I'm ready for snow.

Not, mind, that I'm out actively blasting this all over town as loads of folks are not going to share my view. However. It's winter. In America. In the Northeast. We're supposed to have snow.

It feels weird not to have snow.

More than that, I feel like I'm not getting my monies worth out of the condo fees. I didn't benefit from the roofing redo they did, but I paid the extra dues. Now, I'm not even getting any use out of snow removal. This morning? A bunch of guys showed up to mow the lawns, in snow turning to sleet turning to rain. I didn't bother to ask how the mowers were going to work.

Since they are technically Summer Equipment it would be my understanding they don't do well in, shall we say, adverse conditions.

I also feel badly that they were not dressed properly. Heavy sweatshirts under a waterproof vest in my book defeats the purpose. All that water soaked up from the sleeveular area is indeed, going to get sucked into the chestular part of the sweatshirt.

The vest, therefore, a useless fashion artifact.

I took out Pucker, who usually adores the snow: she sat, outside, but under the overhang, watched the water fall, got three droplets on her head and came back inside. I don't blame her. I too am of the opinion, rain if it's going to rain, freaking snow if it's going to snow.

May not do both.

Mother Nature is rather having her cake and eating it too. Natural Limbo holds little appeal for moi.

I like to know where I stand, but more importantly, what it is I'm standing in.

I found someone else who agreed with me; the mailman. I can say that since ours truly is a man; otherwise I'd have used mail person. Or mail deliverer. Either way, he prefers snow as well. He stays drier. It's also prettier. Worse to drive in; those cutie little mail trucks have horrendous tires. Kind of surprising since they're expected to deliver in all kinds of weather - it's even in their slogan.

Then again, let's recall that having a slogan, doesn't always mean it's followed. Recall my trip to that Big Box Store I won't name? (Home Depot) The whole You Can Do It! We Can Help! Yeah....they didn't want to do either. It should have been We Might Help, If We Feel Like It. Mostly, We Don't.

Weather limbo leaves most of us testy: it's grey, overcast, a combination of cold, raw, wet stuff falling, most of it defying description.

I don't like it.

I want snow.

Rants and raves.

Watching the rest of Breaking Bad, a tv show on Netflix that J got us into?

Fabulous.

Him feeling me up while we watched it?

Less so.

I adore spending time with him, from mundane things (the grocery store) to better, more fun places...say, dinner. Laughing like hyena's while wrapping Christmas/Santa presents in the basement lugging a screeching baby along with the array of presents? Funnier still. Smooching on the sofa while GiGi takes a nap? It's those moments that breathe life into relationships, help them last a lifetime.

However.

Things that do not assist in that?

Moving the recycling as I requested out of the kitchen, but only one foot away into the hallway to collect there until someone trips over it. He'll Swiffer the floor; leave the dog sized fluff ball anchored by dirt and those rubber bits leftover from football season - who said turf fields were a good idea? - in the corner by the stairs. The one that the kids wander through tracking it up the stairs.

Dog has an accident on the floor? Okay. Shit. It's not great, it's not fun, but leaving the &%I$O#G paper towels on the spot does not earn you brownie points - what are you trying to do? Make sure I see that you attempted in some respect to pick it up? When it's on the wood floor it doesn't matter if some of it went into the paper towel. The floor joists - don't bother correcting me that the joists are under the floor, not actually what the spaces between the wood is called - still turn black. The floor, will, indeed, still smell. The dog will, still, find that particular spot and revisit. Like a serial killer, only more dangerous. She repeats the crimes, not just stands there feeling her bladder fill while longingly staring at the spot, holding it until someone takes her out.

No sir.

She'll pee right there.

How do I know this for certain? She's my fucking dog. I raised her. I potty trained her. I've stood in the blazing sun burning the top of my skull right off my head, tramped through snow so thick I had to pick her up over the drifts to find a place to go - the one I shoveled out for her - all so she'd go outside. I walked her, not just visited the Field Selected By The Association For Pet Pottying. Yes, I should have realized that there was a problem....her Indoor Icky Habits were not, in fact, a sign of GiGi Jealousy, as previously thought. Nope. She has a UTI, backed up -well, nevermind what was backed up, I paid my lovely vet to fix it today, since I couldn't do it myself - not to mention, the weight I thought she lost? Yeah, she gained it. The new collar was simply larger, so her Muffin Top over the collar wasn't noticeable.

I won't tell you what she weighed. She and I both peed on the floor in embarrassment and shame. Her more than me. Okay, only her. But I thought about it.

Did you know that if you leave baked beans, and entire can of them, on the stove, on 4, not, say, LO, half of the can will burn right into the bottom of the pan. The new pan. The one you told me not to buy any more of, because you had a whole entire set you were bringing with you. The fact that the pots didn't show up, but a complete set (and I mean ENTIRE set) of Christmas Cookie Sugary Bits that rival mine did? Boggles my mind. Not that you had them; but that they cannot be disposed of. Oh, no. We need two freaking sets of fucking red and green sugar, tree sprinkles and mint extract that lives ON THE COUNTER. We hardly have room to sneeze on that counter and capture our own snot, but let's liven it up a bit with some decorating crap.

Right. The pan. Soaking away in the kitchen sink (duh, what other sink would I soak it in?) with baking soda and soap, I'm not hopeful for it's salvation. Evidently, when I asked if he had tested the bbq pork loin in the crock pot to see if it fell apart, he started up the damn beans and assumed I'd do it.

Because I can read minds.

So twenty minutes later, while he and GiGi are watching some wholly inappropriate TV, he asks if I plan to touch the roast. Huh? Fine. I'll put dinner on the table. The roast is fine. The baked beans however have taken out a pan. I convinced the kids that those black bits? That was bacon the company put in there for flavor. Seriously. And they bought it.

Go ahead, pick a fight over something stupid, like whether or not I take the dog to the vet with or without the baby, and make that decision on my own without your input. Personally, I highly doubt exposing our baby to the stuff that lives in our dog's ass is healthy. Plus also? I don't want to lug her and a dog that fits me at the door to the vet. Add to that? You're whole "what if I wanted to do something this afternoon?" - really? Like what exactly? We spent the morning snugged up together watching Breaking Bad, and now, now you suddenly have some Important Things You Need To Do?

Spare me.

I need to go to the vet, the grocery store, the damn pharmacy alone.

Do you know why?

It makes waking up to watch an episode of Breaking Bad with you, snugged up under my b-graffe blanket special.

Fabulous.

Spending Grown Up Alone Time together then?

You bet.

Details details.

I'm a detail girl. Honestly.

Overlooking some minor details goes with the territory and title of being a New Mom. As well as an Old Mom. I have issues sometimes finding the right word for things - things or people or places I can see in my head? Do not always translate into what flies out of my mouth.

For example, when someone asked me what J's ex-wife does, and I said, she works at a hospital in town, they asked (duh, the next question in line - but the one I was hoping they wouldn't ask) - what department?

Yeah, this is generally where the train goes off the rails.

I could see the office. I knew what they did there. My response to this query?

The Titty Fairy Office.

My mouth hung open too - I swear, that is not what I meant to say...only...I wasn't entirely sure what to say. For the very life of me, I couldn't recall (or perhaps find?) the words: Plastic Surgery. Gaping about as a fish out of water, we stared at each other, waiting for someone to say something. My laugh sounded hollow even to me.

Add to this auspicious I'm Becoming A Complete Moron list:

Totally forgetting the baby is on Miralax.

No I did not forget to put it into the bottles, or cereal and fruit, veggies, etc - I looked up the signs for cereal, peaches, pears, fruit, carrots....cow....c'mon, who doesn't need to know the sign for cow? Right. Okay. So I recall to feed the baby. That's well established; look at her fabulous cheeks - eating well is no secret in this house.

However.

(this is a big however)

I feed the remaining cereal to Pucker.

Yup.

This would be where one of those pesky details - like the freaking laxatives in the baby food along with bowel moving produce products - turns out to be rather important. The damn dog is so regular she hardly knows what to do with herself; she was pretty regular to begin with. Perhaps, as you might imagine, she hardly needs help on that end. I looked at it as a bonding thing with GiGi - see? Jealous of someone that sits in a chair that drops food constantly along with toys? Doggie heaven. Clean floors without my bending over? Better still.

Dog eating laxative infused poop-inducing baby food?

A nightmare.

Explains why some nights she cannot get through the night without either a potty break, or, some Surprise Poop. I'm starting to think it surprises even her. I've only taken a laxative once or twice, but I recall distinctly the Surprise part.

I've been lucky.

I still recall how J takes his coffee (iced, cream, sugar, huge cup, straw). I remember the diaper bag, though not always diapers. Or wipes. But I forget them at different times. I take the dog out, but forget the leash. (that one's a stretch, I know...I just hate the leash) I've run both the washer and the dishwasher without soap, walked into more rooms than I care to admit completely blank on why I am there.

Dressing GiGi to leave the house, in matching clothing, tights and shoes? Having her look so freaking cute no one pays attention to my lack of make-up?

Pfft.

It's all in the details.