I am SO OVER the winter.
More specifically, I am SO OVER the shoveling.
I may have mentioned twice or eighteen times that our driveway, SHE IS LONG AND OH-SO-STEEP, which makes the winter sport of shoveling a bit treacherous. And by treacherous, I mean it’s like the descent down Mt. Everest. You’re going to need extra oxygen, some rope, some boots with eight-inch spikes on the soles, and some long, thermal underwear while you tackle the project. And those little packages of toxic chemical particles that you snap and they heat up? Yeah, those might be a good suggestion for the shoveling of the Jedi Manor Driveway, too.
I, myself, like to stick them under my coat. And in my shoes. And my gloves. And also beneath my stocking cap.
What made the shoveling so much worse this morning was simply the fact that the mercury in the local thermometers refused to rise above the NINE DEGREES BELOW ZERO mark, and I had decided to forgo the hairdryer today, which, in hindsight, was probably not my wisest move of 2011.
(Except the move of putting a cup of cappuccino [made from a powdered mix] in the microwave for a time which was entirely too long was my Grand Master Poor Move of 2011. The cappuccino slop, which baked itself on all four walls and the ceiling of my microwave, made me exclaim, “Oh! What fresh hell is this?” And then I wanted to rip the entire appliance out of the wall and simply buy a new one, with enormously high hopes of starting over, exactly like people released from rehab must feel. A new microwave would have been a fresh start, and the old one would have been a distant memory which I would have risen above and forgotten. Unfortunately, about that same time, I remembered that I was resourceful, like Lily Casey Smith, and that spending a day and a half chiseling baked slop off of the microwave walls made more sense than laying down an entire gold brick for a new one, so that is exactly what I did. And then I couldn’t help but peek into the microwave a hundred and six times that afternoon, as I pridefully admired its cleanliness, which translated into MY BACK-BREAKING HARD WORK.)
Throughout my entire life, my hair has been naturally flat as a board. Oh, I convinced it to curl way back in high school, with the help of a box of Rave permanent solution (because that’s what we did back then — we permed our hair and decorated our wrists with slap bracelets), but the natural flatness of my hair could not be denied. And then, as if God Himself handed me a blessing for reaching an age which is better not spoken out loud, my hair has decided to be naturally CURLY now, and listen, people! I am enjoying the freak appearance of this newfound hair joy to no end. In fact, it’s working out so well for me, that Regs announced a couple of weeks ago, “I want to reach AN AGE WHICH SHALL NOT BE NAMED, so that MY hair will become naturally curly like yours!”
Every so often, I simply lather, rinse (but not repeat), and throw on some high-quality conditioner, and then I towel dry the entire mop, and viola! Curls! Curls the likes of which completely play Varsity to the Rave Permanent Wave’s sophomore team. This morning, I decided to go with the curls, so when I actually went outside to relieve Hubs’ Man Cold from the shoveling duties, since he was bent in half and unable to breathe because of respiratory congestion, my hair plum froze.
I thought that my hair was MOSTLY DRY, but apparently MOSTLY DRY does not cover the UNDERNEATH PORTION of the Natural Curls of Beauty, and those little curls froze themselves up like a good ice sculpture debuting at a Christmas buffet at the White House. The last time my hair froze like that was during my freshman year, when I had PE during the unholy first period of the school day, and, during our swimming unit, we were given exactly eighteen minutes to go from our wet Speedo suits to ’80s Beautiful. Rest assured, having eighteen minutes assigned to you to achieve a 1985 hairstyle is like telling NASA engineers, “You have precisely four minutes to take this pile of scrap metal and wires and build a shuttle.”
It can’t be done. 1985 hair required HOURS of Hair Attention and also a full bottle of Aqua Net aerosol spray. And usually two different curling irons, of varying barrel sizes, heating up simultaneously. And a Bon Jovi cassette playing in the background.
I think it goes without saying that the wet, Rave-possessed hair froze in 1985 when we switched buildings in the winter during our swimming unit, because eighteen minutes was barely enough time to layer our Izod polos and get the collars just so and the bottoms of our acid-washed jeans pegged. There was no time left over for dual curling irons and a can of shellac.
So yes, winter is pretty much dead to me at the moment.
After Hubs had shoveled more than half of the driveway this morning, I ventured out into the CRISP morning air to finish up, so that he could head off to a 7:30 meeting at work. He looked at me, with his Man Cold in full force, and said, “Honey, it’s too cold out here for you to shovel; I can finish it up.”
Hubs can be such a knight in shining armor most of the time! However, after singing him another quiet refrain of Soft Kitty, I insisted that he could take his Mucinex vs. Congestion self off to his meeting, while I continued to pretend that I did indeed live on a ranch, and that the driveway needed to be shoveled out, so that the cattle could get to fresh water.
Ranching, people. It involves early bedtimes on Friday nights, and exhaustive work in the frigid temperatures, which you’d rather not participate in.
Those dadgum cattle require so much ATTENTION! I’m half-tempted to haul them off to market a few months early.