February 12, 2012
Stephen is most agreeable about taking the dogs out.
Agreeable and getting himself ready to go are two very different things however.
We made our arrangements for dog walking in the snow yesterday and it seemed as if he understood what we were planning to do.
And then he started the usual Stephen-stuff.
Housework.
Pottering around the house.
Stopping every once in a while for a spot of tea.
So when he was finally ready, coat, hat, mitts, hillbilly boots on, I knew I had to leave asap, because he could change his mind and be undressed at the drop of his hat, his standard, "oh-since-you're-not-ready-I'll-do-this" line and two hours we're still waiting to go anywhere.
I was out of the house, ready to go faster than you could say Stephen Pidwysocky.
The falling snow, the mild temperatures, the plowed roadway, happy puppies gambooling about made for a lovely walk.
However, I was slightly aware, at the point where we exited the car, that there was a pressure in my bladder indicating that I needed to pee.
No problem.
We'll be at the end of the trail and back again lickety split and I'll use the bathroom at home.
Halfway through the walk, it was very apparent to me that this was not going to be the case.
My bladder had no such intentions.
Waiting?
I think not.
Which is how I found myself on a snowy afternoon, squatting just around the corner of the trail, past the gate, with my pants hauled between my legs in a valiant effort to prevent them from getting wet, back cheeks open to the falling snow and curious dogs, Stephen standing guard against intruders into our bizarre tableau, having a pee in the wide open wilderness that is the farm.
And not IN the woods either.
On the trail.
The edge, mind you.
But the trail nonetheless.
Normally, I would have had no problem trekking into the woods, but the snow was very deep and I just didn't want to chance losing my footing and plunging my ample ass in a snow bank.
A frostbitten arse, one that may prevent ever knowing that you're fully on the toilet seat because you can't actually feel it is not on my list of things to experience in the near future.
Most problematic were the dogs.
Frankie in particular.
Who thought this would be a wonderful opportunity to get to know the rest of me.
And of course, my faithful guard, lookout, "watchqueen" finding this predicament more than entertaining.
At which point I reminded him that it wasn't my fault that I couldn't just unzip and aim the way he could.
Yet another example of how women's anatomy is far, far crueler than that of men's.
The walk back the car, some 90 minutes later was not as pleasant.
Snow falling faster.
More dense.
Us unable to even see the tree line signaling the gate at the farm.
Hence my concern that Em was going to be driving home, a week old official driver's licence in her pocket and no winter tires.
Which, when I was actually able to speak with her, cause some "words" between us.
And those "words" angered me enough that I was faced with the decision to eat a half a box of President's Choice Decadent Chocolate chip cookies, or, shovel the driveway.
Shovel the driveway it was.
And for an hour and a half I was out there moving snow here and there, hither and yon, cleaning a wide space for our now two car family.
All the while contemplating the vicissitudes of raising a newly licensed teenage daughter.
Let me tell you, by the time I was finished shoveling the driveway, walkway, path to the birdfeeders, path for the garbage dolly and clearing the back deck, I was clear about the vicissitudes of raising a teenage daughter.
And the driveway looked damn good.
And will again.
Because I have to go back out there shortly and shovel some more.
I don't mind.
No one else will do it the way I want it done.
Grandma is coming for a visit next weekend.
And the Clarke-Pidwysocky-Van Every household is all aflutter.
As is our satellite apartment wherein Mer resides.
The cleaning shall commence this week in a fury not to be contested.
ALL the rooms in the house.
Including Em's room.
Whether she likes it or not.
And in spite of the but-Grandma-doesn't-need-to-see-my-room rationale I anticipate from the mouth of my babe.
You're right.
Grandma doesn't NEED to see your room.
But she will.
Because I will show her.
Hence it WILL be cleaned.
And as for Pookie's under-the-deck activities?
I see them being put on hold.
Just another benefit of the visit from Grandma.
Whitney Houston died yesterday.
I have many fond memories of listening to her music, convinced my pipes were just as good as hers.
Ah, delusions.
Another example of how fleeting time is, and that no one lives forever.
No matter how wonderfully they can sing.
Title Lyric: Wait and Pee by Slipknot
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