Top 10 Signs Winter Hell is Here

10. I start to hate everything.

9. I to start to crave everything.

8. Parkas appear. Ugly, tacky, unflattering parkas.

7. It all looks like grey wasteland out there.

6. I check the weather regularly and, as a result, cringe regularly.

5. Once I'm inside, my butt cheeks stay frozen long after the rest of me has warmed.

4. Snot and tears run with wild abandon after 2 seconds outside.

3. I am reminded that I forgot to have my coat dry cleaned. Again.

2. I wish for (because I'm too cheap to buy) a remote car starter.

1. Wolf and moose motif coats, fleeces, and capes - yes, capes, appear. The one thing that trumps a parka is a wolf-motif fleece. Gah!

Ringing the sex bells

It's not at all about sex, actually. Just wanted a sexy title. I don't even know what sex bells are and if they even exist, or if I'd ever want to ring such things. I'm going to talk about the holidays, and that's boring and cliche for December of course, so what better way to jazz it up than to add a strangely suggestive title? Brilliant, I know.

As per usual, I'm terribly unprepared for all things holidays: While I did manage to coordinate an almost 3 mile roundtrip adventure to pick out a tree, and even get it decorated, the rest of my holiday planning has consisted mostly of anxiety and irritation, dotted with short bursts of cynicism and total Giveupness. That's a word. My word. Use it only with permission.

I'm coming to the conclusion that I might not really be into the holidays, but just play along because it's exciting for Sam, and for the most part, the people I love are on board with it - it's much more important to me that we get to spend time together, and if it happens to all come together because of widespread holiday related time off, worship, blatant commercialism, or all three, then so be it. I'll take it!
I'm not very religious, so the birth of Christ, as well as the other religious celebrations going on around this time, don't anchor my thoughts or activities. I have no problems with enjoying the food and cheer, the music and pretty lighting, and saying Merry Christmas, Happy Hanukkah, Happy Holidays, Happy Kwanzaa, Happy New Year, or Happy Frenzied Shopping. Whatever floats your boat is what I will greet you with, my friend, cause it's all good - just think of me as your willing Holiday Ally. Pass the cookies please, and let's make out under the mistletoe. Hey, maybe I am into the holidays!

But back to planning: December is nearly half over, and I'm further behind this year than ever. In fact, I'm probably not going to manage getting greeting cards or letters out this year. Oooh, quick detour down memory lane: A former friend once asked me why I bothered to send out a holiday letter. She remarked, "I mean, you're basically Atheist. I just don't get it." Gentle readers, I know I don't have to spell out all the awful assumptions, judgments, and offenses in that little gem. I don't identify as an Atheist. I might be more of an Alltheist. Goodness, then maybe I should be sending out like 6 times the cards...or wait, that's right-Season's Greetings will do. That's not to say that receiving religious cards offends me. It's fine. Holiday Ally.

I do tend to get it all done in time, and I'm confident I will come through once more. Tim and I usually exchange ornaments and non-extravagant gifts. Sam's gifts are pretty much picked out (but not yet ordered...that's next), and I still have to come up with ideas for my family and a few select friends. Like I mentioned, the holiday mailing might not happen - but I can put a practical spin on my failure...besides the outrageous cost of the stamps and cards, it will save paper, as well as the chemicals used in the inks and photo prints...not to mention that about three quarter of the folks that would receive them are now on Facebook.

I wish you all wonderful holiday joy!

Suck it, stupid Saturday

Since I went back to work full time last February, my husband's schedule has come to include almost one whole precious week-end day off (he's off Fridays and Saturdays, so we have Friday eve together, but on Saturday, he has to nap after dinner in prep for his overnight shift, which is 11pm Sat-7am Sunday). Combined with the recent addition of a standing a.m. coffee date with my friend Allison, Saturdays have regained some of their long-lost luster. Granted, I still don't like that the Monday-Friday grind means that instead of having the day to ourselves on Saturday, I have to try and administrate the rest of our lives (banking, groceries, and various errands much better suited to weekday mornings), but at least, sometimes, it feels like I get a partial weekend.

Sundays are a bit different - while I do get to spend lots of time with Sam, it rarely includes Tim because he's sleeping. We don't do church, and even if we did, we wouldn't ever make it because Tim needs to sleep, period, and there's no way around that. I wouldn't take Sam on my own because I don't do organized religion unless I have to...I pledged to Tim years ago that if he wanted us to go to a church (one we agreed on)I'd be supportive, but his schedule has always precluded the possibility. I catch up on laundry. I play with Sam and focus on him all morning, and I feel more love, power, grace, and warmth from being with him than I ever have in church or from anything associated with religion. Not even close. Not even the same ballfield.

By early afternoon, however, I start getting anxious about Monday, and by the time Tim wakes up, I'm ready to climb the walls because the truth is, we've done everything there is to do around here at least twice, winter is coming, and I start feeling trapped and isolated. I start to miss my family, resent where we live, blah, blah, blah. That story hasn't really changed very much. This past summer wasn't too bad because I had lots of days off, we spent time outside everyday in the yard, and often, we'd just hop in the car and drive somewhere to go for a walk (lol - drive to walk...you know how I feel about that...it's one of the biggest downsides to living outside of town, but on a busy road). As the weather and the darkness comes though, Sundays just seem to get lost in the shadow of Monday.

This brings me back to today - Saturday. It's Halloween, and Sam was supposed to be a tiger. We planned to take him trick-or-treating locally (remember: drive first, then walk), but last night, around 11, he woke up with a fever, about 101. It took a while for the ibuprofen to kick in, and he was up with me, chatty even, until 2am, when it finally broke. I was exhausted. Tim, who would normally be home on Friday night, had to work overtime and didn't get in until 3am. Sam only slept until about 7am, and by then he was such a little furnace again, he'd heated up the whole bed! He and I got up and had breakfast, and lounged around until Tim woke up at 10:30, when I was finally able to shower and go to the bank, drug store, return an item, get groceries...administrate. In the meantime, Sam improved, but after his nap, the fever was back. At this point, we decided that trick-or-treating was out of the question. We explained it to him, and he didn't complain one bit...the little guy actually seemed relieved!

I made pizza for dinner (I have a new, crisper crust recipe to share), and soon after, Tim went off to nap. I let Sam stay up a little past his bedtime because he's just such a little munchkin and I love to just look at him, constantly. He's been asleep for a bit now, but I'm going to assess his condition around 10, and hope for an uneventful night.

Tomorrow will be a rinse and repeat of the generic Sunday I described - with Sam under the weather, the probability of the two of us getting out is smaller than usual. Maybe we'll build the biggest lego creation yet.

I'm trying to be more emotionally prepared for winter this year, but I'm afraid that my preparation is starting to feel more like very 'conscious dreading', if that makes any sense. The holidays, family and friends, parties and cheer do provide some flashes of light, but after Christmas, the winter just feels like a big, dark, silent, cold ocean that surrounds and tries to swallow me, and I have to tread water until Spring.

Of mice and men and women

Tonight I'm planting some bait, but not setting the traps. I must let it believe that the aromatic little clump of peanut butter is free, safe, and totally up for grabs. According to the articles found during my recent (frantic) Internet searches, you don't want to have a trap shy mouse, so you let it live the good life for a day or two, leading it to think the traps are just interesting serving pieces.

The weekend before Christmas, I lay in bed and watched a tiny field mouse that had been in our bedroom wall gradually scrape its way out from a small gap under the door jamb. Of course I was horrified, but just like passing a car accident, you have to stare. The day before it squeezed itself out, I'd naively set a trap right next to the gap, confident that when Mouse eventually popped out, it would walk directly into the trap. This was not to be. Mouse slid out, and I watched, paralyzed, as it trotted right past the damned trap and into the dark hallway. I was expecting Tim to be home from work any minute, so I called his cell and screamed in a whisper, "It's innnn the houuuussssssse!"

As he came up the stairs, I directed him to shut Sam's door and get busy finding this evil intruder. We saw it dart through the shadows a couple of times, then go into the bathroom. Tim put the trap in the bathroom with him and shut the door. Obviously I could not fall asleep knowing Mouse was alive and kickin it mousy-style in the bathroom. Would he be trapped by morning or would he be waiting to attack me in the shower and eat my face off? A little while later, I thought I heard the trap, and Tim said (with a hint of condescension?), "Do you want me to go check?" Um. Well, let's see... if you care at all for my welfare and mental health, and protecting the mother of your child from face-eating vermin, you will get up and go check. Duh.

Tim was in the bathroom for a while. After hearing two flushes and contemplating if I should get the broom and swoop in for a hysterical rescue, he finally came back to bed. Apparently, Mouse was in the tub, cornered. Tim doused him with shampoo (the good stuff, not the Suave--sigh) and Mouse started to run around the tub. He quickly got sudsy and began sneezing. Have you ever heard a mouse sneeze? Tim threw a hand towel over him and flushed him. The second flush was just a pee. I questioned both the sanity and possible sanitation laws broken in flushing a mouse down the toilet, but he assured me that it was cool. Ew.

A few days passed and things were quiet. Last night we heard some distant scratching somewhere in the walls, but nothing nearby or alarming. I should tell you that while I have realized that mice are a normal part of life, that they get into every house eventually, both old and new, and that they are not generally a huge problem if kept under control and out of the food and living areas, I am still revolted by them and struggle with the thought that I might be a scumbag-trashy-dirty person with vermin in her house. Of course if a friend had the occasional winter time mouse problem I would never think that of them- we are our own worst critics. I think it's in part due to my blissfully unaware childhood. We either never had mice, or my parents never discussed them with me. I do remember my mom once saw a mouse near the door when we lived in Italy, and she had my grandmother chase it out the door and off the balcony. Splat! Bottom line is that until we moved into this house, my mouse credentials were rather thin.

Despite the relative quiet, I was having trouble falling asleep last night. Around midnight, I decided to try some warm milk (and one Benadryl, for sport). Went downstairs, and as I'm heading into the kitchen I saw an unmistakable silhouette scurry across the dining room floor and into the kitchen. I was barefoot. BAREFOOT. I'm never barefoot! I didn't scream, but my gasp was so sharp that it made me cough. I ran back upstairs and woke Tim. This was a disaster of enormous proportion. We both went back down and looked around. Didn't see anything. We laid a couple of glue traps and went to bed. I eventually fell asleep, comforted by the thought of getting a cat.

This morning there was nothing in the traps. Tim had already started using poison in the basement and repellents outside; he feels this particular mouse getting inside is a fluke and not a sign of infestation--but I'm not yet convinced. We went off to work. I wasn't very productive, and spent a good chunk of my morning worrying and chatting. I talked to coworkers and friends about it, and to my relief, everyone has a mouse story. And a bat story. And a chipmunk story. It does help me feel better - but I still want them all dead-diggidy-dead.

One of my coworkers, Cheryl, volunteers for the local humane society in her spare time and is very knowledgeable about animals, so I talked to her about a cat. I generally don't love cats, but last night I'd decided that I could learn to love one that keeps my house mouse free - in my opinion, the only way to have a symbiotic relationship with the Feline Freaks. I'm glad I asked her because now I know I don't want a cat to tackle this problem: If I did get lucky and adopted an effective predatory cat, it may actually EAT the mice it kills or eat PARTS of them! What?? Seriously?! I think my stomach virus just returned. And I thought cats eating mice was just Tom & Jerry fodder! Cheryl advised me that if I couldn't handle finding these 'presents' I should reconsider the cat solution...Yea, not only would I not be able to handle such gifts, but I would likely not stop screaming until they came to take me away. Thanks for preventing a tragedy, Cheryl!

She recommended traps - the old fashioned simple spring kind that kill instantly, Victor brand. Tim had looked at those, but ended up with some glue traps instead. She curled her nose and said she didn't like glue traps because it's awful to see the mouse stuck on the pad, and if you don't kill it yourself before you dispose of it, it dies from stress and starvation. That sounds fabulously appropriate to me. Don't mess with me, little f!&*!rs.

So I read up on the best ways to use traps. A common mistake is to not put out enough, even if just for one mouse. I felt prepared as I left work and headed straight to WalMart (I know, I know, but seriously, mice deserve only the best). I wanted to get some containers to protect my food items as well.

The Victor traps come four to a package for $1.87. I bought 48 traps. Best to be prepared. I also picked up some steel wool to close up any holes we might find.

While I was dumping the traps into my cart, two women, total strangers, approached me separately with advice. This was also a comfort. One woman had a brand new house with mice. She nodded approvingly at my containers and told me that she made her husband dispose of the bodies. The other complained about another brand of traps, how she made her brother check the traps, and wished me luck. Earlier, on the phone, my mother admitted that about a year ago, my father saw a mouse in the basement and she was horrified to find out that he didn't address it immediately. Women bonding over mice. And men. Chivalry may be long gone, but I still want Tim to protect me from mice. Do you, Timothy, vow to love, cherish and honor her, and also beat the veritable hell out of any mice near her, now and forever, until death do you part?

When I got home, I checked the glue traps again and found nothing. I spent the afternoon thoroughly checking my kitchen and food for evidence of mice, and thankfully, everything looks fine. My cupboards appear to be intact, with no apparent intrusions. I have yet to find droppings anywhere in the house, actually. As a precaution, I put grains, cereals, flours, and open packages of crackers and cookies into the canisters. Here is my awesome arsenal of traps and the containers I picked up for my cupboards:

It was a good project, besides its original justification: I cleaned everything out, wiped down, and reorganized. The contents of my cabinets are pretty and neat, like it's all ready for 2009 or something. Knowing that our food is safe is additional peace of mind until this uh, event, seems more controlled. I've also been assured that mice don't eat people's faces off, unless of course they are really angry or high on PCP.

I believe I might be starting to overcome the fear and turning it into determined rage. Rambo style. I might put on some war paint and a bandanna before I set out the bait. But you know Tim will follow up with the rest.

Blogger's Block 3: Tight skin and more

Maybe we have more in common than you thought. Tonight I'm listing all (or as many as I can think of) the physical feelings I absolutely can't stand. These are not emotions, but more the sensation variety. They can, however, cause wild emotional reactions.

1. The way the skin on my legs feels after shaving - not the smooth part, but the dry, tight feeling. I use moisturizer, but the first dose gets sucked in pretty fast, and a few minutes later, I have to re-lotion, or I will climb the walls. It's such a process. Don't bother with advice like use gel or shave cream or whatever else, cause I have lifelong serious razor burn problems, and trust me, I've tried it all. It's just my lot in life.

2. Dry or rough feet on bed sheets. If my feet feel rough when I get into bed, even just a TOE, I have to get up immediately and either buff and lotion, or just heavily lotion. Smooth feet equals sweet dreams, doesn't everyone know this?

3. I've discussed the eyebrow issue previously, but I'll just give it a nod here cause it's a major thing for me.

4. Cracking skin around finger nails in the cold weather. Seriously WTF is up with that? It's an Oct-March annoyance.

5. Generally tight skin after showering during cold weather months. Even with using good soap and lotion.

Since those were mostly moisture related, I think a solution might be to be dipped in shea butter, wrapped in soft towels, and kept sedated in a warm and humid self-cleaning pod for the duration of the winter months. I just don't think my people were meant to live in these conditions.

6. When suffering a cold, one nostril is stuffed and the other is free. Suddenly, without warning, they switch - or the free one gets stuffed too, and you're so glad you at least have a mouth.

7. Waking up by alarm clock.

8. Waking up by crying baby.

9. Waking up in general.

10. Prematurely swallowing a big pointy piece of cantaloupe and feeling it slowly rip your esophagus down with it.

11. When dental floss pops between your teeth and nicks your gum.

12. The new little shred of hanging flesh behind your front teeth after eating pizza that was too hot. I usually twist it up with my tongue until it rips it off.

13. When you rub your eye too hard and it suddenly feels freaky and you think you might have pushed it in too far.

Thanksgiving Fib

I know I wrote I wouldn't post again until December. I can't be trusted.

There's a winter storm advisory in effect until this afternoon. We're supposed to leave for NC tonight - I imagine the worst will be over by the time we go, plus we'll be driving south, so at this point, I'm not worried about it.

Despite my deep and relentless hate of upstate NY winters, I do think early snowfall is pretty. It looks especially pretty from the windows. I took these a few minutes ago.



Happy Thanksgiving!

Tales from the cold

I'm suffering from a miserable cold, passed on from my husband. I even called him a big baby about it, and as karma would have it, I'm about to be the biggest Waaaa this side of the Hudson.
What's not to love about a cold? You sound miserable, so everyone is nice to you. People suddenly care about you getting sleep and rest and eating well. And for the most part, people leave you alone, keeping a safe distance from your germy aura and all your germy possessions.

But alas, lonely and phlegmy is the cold sufferer.

A few observations about having a cold:

It always amazes me that one nostril can be completely clogged, and yet drip.

Burning, watery, and sensitive eyes make you look like you are outrageously high.

I get excited about those few moments in the day when my sinuses break up and I can get a thorough nose-blowing. Feels great for about 2 minutes after, then you clog up again something fierce.

Trying to fall asleep at night is a joke. Somehow, you manage, but it really hurts in the morning.

Blowing your nose in your hand in the steamy hot shower is gross. But it's soo good. You do it too, don't front.

You feel a little like your Great Aunt [fill in old-fashioned name] with all the little tissue wads in every pocket.

I completely lose my sense of smell, and therefore, most of my sense of taste. I know 2 people that claim they can still taste just fine. Freaks! If you are one, reveal yourself...you are lucky indeed...or you are liars.