Is everybody happy now???

February 9, 2011



On many occasions I have extolled the virtues of young people having jobs.

Especially the young people who inhabit my house.

Or the satellite bachelor apartment a 5 minute walk from my house.

However, last evening, I experienced the downside of forcing my chicks from the nest into the harsh realities of the work world.

And having a husband who teaches a night class.

Meaning last evening, after supper, while Stephen is pulling out of the driveway, heading back to campus for his class, while Keith is at work because he picked up an extra shift at my urging, while Em is in the kitchen cleaning up the supper dishes, and the dogs have their little faces pressed to the front window in the kitchen, I am outside.

At night.

Shoveling the driveway.

Alone.

Well, me and whatever was playing on my ipod at the time.

So, while singing Glee's rendition of "Fire" and Rhianna and Drake's, "What's My Name" along with several other songs I shouldn't be singing in my head let alone out loud for all the neighbours to hear, I am moving snow to the sides of the driveway and hoping that the piles don't get too much taller or I won't be able to hurl snow over them.

It's heavy, wet snow.

And because it is heavy, wet snow, I am wearing a hat.

Hats and I have a hate/hate relationship.

I have a friend who contends there is a hat out there for every head.

I agree, with one slight modification.

Every head except for mine.

My children all look lovely in a wide variety of hats.

Stephen looks special when he wears hats, but still, he can pull it off.

Me.

Not. Even. Close.

I look like I have some birth disorder not yet named to the annals of medicine. 

Believe me, I've tried on every hat I've ever come across and have yet to find one that doesn't make me look challenged.

Last night, however, it was dark and snowing, so I didn't much care what I looked like, so long as it kept the top of my head from turning into a ice cap.

And not one from Tim Horton's although that would have been a welcome energy boost.

It took me an hour to clear up the day's snowfall.

And another hour for Mother Nature to scoff at my efforts and fill it all back up again.

She is just being a royal bitch lately.

I may have to have words with her.

One bitch to another.






At one point during the emptying of the driveway, I notice a shape close to the front steps, wearing my other coat.

Emily.

Who was engaging in a very life endangering activity.

Bringing the dogs out.

Which I thought was odd, because Stephen had them out before he left for his class.

I removed my earbuds to inquire as to how come she was outside, wearing my coat, with Frankie at the end of the leash.

"Poop."

I'm assuming she meant Frankie and not herself.

Em will take the dogs out if she is the only one in the house.

Or if I ask (demand) her.

But I think it's safe to say that leashing almost 200 pounds of virtually unmanageable dog to the end of leashes with the sole purpose of taking them out in a blizzard isn't top of Em's things-I-want-to-do-in-my-life list.

So I was surprised to see her.

Then she asked if she could bring Frankie over to see me.

And then I knew what was going on.

She'd had enough.

Enough of being in the house, alone with the dogs, and their CONSTANT back and forth, back and forth, back and forth from the kitchen window to the sidelight, the incessant whining, whining, whining from the two of them, and without even having the decency to whine in harmony, because I was outside shoveling the driveway and they weren't with me.

Tikka could have come out.

But ultimately, that would have been much, much worse.

Because Frankie would have stepped up the whining to barking.

Non-stop, never-ending, continuing until you want to shove a tea towel in this mouth and duct tape in there for good measure kind of non stop barking.

An intelligent person would inquire as to how come I didn't bring them out with me, knowing how much they would have enjoyed it.

Trying to shovel the driveway with Frankie and Tikka cavorting and frolicking around me would be akin to Gordon Ramsay trying to make a gourmet meal with a room full of two year olds.

I know this because I've tried to shovel with my canine companions frolicking around me.

Sort of a tv inspired image of loving dog owners and their equally adoring and obeying canine compadres outside together during a gentle snow fall, whilst shoveling and snowball throwing occurs, small children clapping their hands gleefully, and neighbours milling around with smiles on their faces.

Instead, I get a smack of reality where in the loving dog owner attempts to corral the canine companions into the yard during a blizzard of heavy, wet snow meaning there is neither time, energy nor desire to throw snowballs, small children are crying because they don't want to be outside but inside watching tv and there are no milling neighbours because they're inside, drinking hot toddys because they have freakin' snowblowers and don't have to be outside shoveling!

So when Em inquired about whether or not she should bring Frankie down the driveway to see me, I simply replied, "No."

I had more than enough to keep me busy, thank you very much.

Plus I don't think Frankie much enjoys my singing.

The lengths I have to go to for a little alone time.






Today is Wednesday, so its Intro to Crim this morning and Crime and Popular Film this afternoon.

Angels With Dirty Faces.

Far more enjoyable than shoveling snow.

Although the plow just drove by and I may have to shovel the end of the driveway to ensure we can get out.

Because cars plowing through piles of snow only works on tv.

I know.

I've tried.

I got stuck.

And why me?

Because no one else will even be remotely ready to leave the house, let alone be prepared to join me in removing the snow from the end of the driveway.

Another thing experience has taught me.

I should just be thankful they all get in the car on time.

It's the small things.



Title Lyric: Bo Hard Labour by The Counting Crows