Not only does my dear darling hubby sometimes call me a nerd, but he also calls me Scrooge around Christmas. Oh how we love one another!
Actually, I don't really take any offense at the name since I find the consumerism and the total spaztastic-ism that surrounds Christmas in the United States more than appalling. Why would he call me that, anyway? Oh, yes. That. Well. That's because I take the Christmas tree down on December 26th before 10:00 a.m. It is called CLEANING UP, peeps. You don't keep your birthday party decorations up for a week after the party has ended, do you? Heavens no. Or at least, if you do, invite me over and I will clean it up for you.
So, anyway. We went to millions of Christmas parties and finally we gobbled up someone's germs and the whole house came down with a cold, each one falling 12 hours after the previous sick member. We were sad little sick dominoes.
This leads to New Year's Eve. We were too sick to go out (even though we actually had a babysitter to allow us to do so - what a horrid waste!). Instead, we spent a lovely time watching a PBS cooking lineup that included Jacques Pepin (he is awesomesauce, in case you didn't know) and then segwayed into the atrocious America's Test Kitchen (which I spent half of the time yelling at the TV for their use of vegetable oil - WHO DOES THAT - and other such despicable practices like using plastic while cooking: really? But, I suppose, it is aptly named.). Then we went to bed in the middle of Martha Bakes. Way to ring in that New Year, baby.
New Year's Day was full of more excitement that included sick people laying around in pajamas with blankets and going in and out of partially comatose states through the day and watching an absolutely disgusting amount of snow barf onto the lawns, sidewalks, driveways and every imaginable living thing on the face of the earth outside. It was a nightmare. Not the sick part. The snow part. I hate snow. (The person who invented the song, "Let it snow, let it snow, let it snow..." was CLEARLY DERANGED and in need of a solid thunk on the noggin.)
But even more than my hatred for snow is my hatred for having my driveway and sidewalk covered in any material whatsoever. You may think me lawn obsessed! If it were even remotely socially acceptable, you would find me standing outside with a Rambo-like stance and a blowtorch in the fall igniting any foreign bit that dared to dance its way onto my property.
Around 8:00 p.m. we heard a knock at the door (alarming because we weren't expecting anyone and secondly because of how totally AWESOME everyone looked with sideways hair and blankets wrapped around us like we were pathetic little bums - and secondly alarming because usually in our hood that means you betta grab yo' Glock and answer by yelling, "Who dat!?" in a loud and irritated tone without opening the door. Don't fret, I didn't do that, hubby answered the door, and I simply ran for the .45 just in case. Easy peasy.). It was a teenage boy who wanted to shovel for us. This was good since we were so pathetic that we hadn't been able to shovel all day. So we agreed and I spent the next half hour peeking spy-fully through miniblinds at his shoveling.
Yeaaaah. If you know me, you know that I am slightly particular on all things that have to do with my house and/or property. Martha Stewart is one of my heroes. I organize for people. I don't go to bed unless everything is perfectly clean and if the littles leave stuff out, it must be because they want it to go live in the trash for the rest of its life. When I was a teacher, I may have put tape marks on the ground where the first desk in each row were supposed to line up and the students weren't dismissed until their rows were in perfect alignment.
So it was through these eyes that I looked outside and saw the job of the teenage boy. I agree, yes, I may be particular, but even if you were the least particular person in the entire world, this would have been a doozy. It was bad. There were mohawks of stripes of snow all over the place and he had dumped piles of snow against the house on the bricks. Where will that go when it melts? Oh yeah, into the basement. Great idea. He didn't shovel in front of the garage and didn't move things out of the way to shovel the gigantic piles that had accumulated near them. Basically, a 7 year-old would have done better.
I gave my husband the face. You know. The "This Isn't Going To Work" face. My more sensitive husband went out and asked him to move the piles away from the house. Then he came back five minutes later asking for money and then he left. (Yes, we did pay him. And then I said if someone EVER comes asking to shovel our stuff again, it would be better for everyone if we just slam the door in their face. Not literally, of course. Naw, up in this hood, you just "accidentally" let your pit bull out of the screen door and all solicitations cease indefinitely.)
Leaving the driveway in this state could not be borne. I took my sick pajama-ed self and suited up for the blizzard of 2014. I shoveled for an hour to clean it up. I went to bed so glad that it was all fixed. I even turned off the lights to stare at the marvelous work. I literally thought to myself, "Now THAT'S something you can enjoy. Something that isn't like the dishes where you wait three hours and there's another meal to mess it all up! No! This right here, this is lasting success!"
The next morning, I opened the window shades to find four more inches of snow.
FOILED!
I suited up again. My back was breaking, my nose was sniffling, my throat was scratching, but I was going to remove this nastiness.
After an hour, I finished.
At lunch, there were 3 more inches out there.
For real? Are you even kidding me right now?
The third time of shoveling included me inventing new curses to bring down upon the menacing snowflakes whose entire life purpose was nothing more than to taunt my life off.
Now, I don't believe in karma, but if you did, and you believed in special Christmas karma, and if you believed that if you took your Christmas tree down too soon that it would come get you in a bad way...well, then. I suppose I am your prime example.
Bah humbug.
Peace, love and please someone invent driveway hairdryers: I WILL PAY YOU,
Ms. Daisy
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