Hi. So I still haven’t posted any pics on here of my sweet finds, but it’s been a busy day, so I figured that I may be able to pacify you with something that I wrote a few weeks ago and have yet to publish. Here it is:
I’m not a huge snow person. Aside from how I’m not made of snow (obviously since I’m the one in the white dress in the main pic and that day was bloody hot), I’m just not a fan of snow. At all. Sure I can appreciate it for it’s beauty and the whole ‘rebirth of a new day with a blanket of pure whiteness’ stuff, and I get that it looks really swell in a Norman Rockwell painting, but for the most part: What’s the use of it? I have running water, a Keurig, and a Culligan cooler. I’m good. In actuality, aside from the picturesque beauty that Robert Frosts around the world glorify, it’s a hinderance. It makes it impossible to wear heels outside without faceplanting, people break limbs all the time on it, and it needs to be shoveled too frequently, which is a nightmare. All around: sh*tty in my books. My idea of ‘winter sports’ is seeing if I can get the three ice cubes in the bottom of my now-empty cocktail glass to line up in the shape of a snowman. No? Fill ‘er up.
Here’s a perfect example: I was hoping to solicit extra money from my husband for this shopping trip that my sister and I just took to Fargo, North Dakota. I love shopping. You could call it an addiction, actually, as my definition of ‘addiction’ would be: would you do a sex act for it? Ask my husband. It’s an addiction. And, sidenote: It’s not prostitution if you’re married to him. It’s love. So, to see if I could charm him with my usefulness as well as my sexy savvy, I decided to shovel the driveway. Said decision happened to fall on the same day that Edmonton got it’s biggest snow dump of the year. And I mean: DUMP.
I get home from work early (they sent us home because the highways were closing. Perhaps this should have been my first sign that today was not the day to showcase my other, more public, skill set in an attempt for monetary reward) and I still had about 4 hours left until my flight, so I figured ‘why not shovel the driveway for my husband?’. Not only is it a nice gesture, but in about 4 hours I’d have to drag my Dakine luggage through that same area in order to get it to his truck, and I didn’t want it, or my new leather over-the-knee boots to get snowy. AND maybe he’d slip me a little paper lovin’ for it. Win win. Plus, I skipped my workout that day.
So I started shoveling. It was torture. First of all: How are you supposed to dress for that? They tell you in all the survivor shows to wear layers. So that’s what I did. I threw on a long-sleeved shirt, a sweater, a ski jacket that I bought at a Zellars sale two years ago that I had never worn because I, well, hate snow sports, but wanted to look stylish while I pretended not to hate snow sports from behind a pint of beer in a warm ski lodge, snow pants, my tall, lace up Uggs that I bought on this Japense eBay site called dhgate (www.dhgate.com. you should totally check it out. REAL Uggs for $35, shipping included), and a scoodie, What’s a scoodie, you ask? Great question. It’s a brightly colored scarf with a hood that I bought from Lulu Lemon two years ago, then lost one night when I was drunk, then my husband bought for me again from a nice lady my age on Kijiji who had one that she didn’t wear who must not have known that the style was discontinued from Lulu otherwise he would have paid much more than $30 for it, probably closer to the $60 that I paid for mine. Re-tah-did, I know. Fully enveloped in a case of wool and water proof-ness, I began to shovel.
Sweating, freezing, sweating, freezing. I’ve seen ‘Trainspotting’ AND walked away from ‘blowout sales’ in the mall before, I know what detox is like. And this was it. Ok, so I don’t really know, although the shopping-relapse thing puts me pretty close. You can’t fault me for my flair for the dramatic. I have an addiction. Don’t judge me, monkey.
Plus, the snow was SO FRIGGIN HEAVY.
I’m going to stop right here and interject something: I am in no way a weakling. I work out, face off with people twice my age in the ring that is work on a regular basis, and move multiple pounds of clothing on hangers and in rubbermaid containers from the bottom floor of my home to the fourth floor when the seasons change (outfits need to be updated to those that are season appropriate, obviously). I don’t complain about work. I’m not afraid to get my hands dirty. But if I can avoid lifting 30 pounds of wet snow on the surprisingly slim blade of a shovel 400 times in a row, I certainly will. Just so we’re on the same page. I’m no p*ssy.
So shovel I did. For an hour and a half.
I must admit that there were several times where I wanted to say ‘Eff this!’, haughtily throw the shovel down, and dramatically stomp away into the house and drink a Palm Breeze or three, but I didn’t. And do you want to know why? Well, as much as I would love to say ‘pride in my performance’ here, that’s not it. Why: 1. I do a REALLY good haughty throw down and walk away and there was no one here to witness my theatrical genius, and 2. My husband is the same age as me (he’s six weeks older exactly) and he would mock me mercilessly. We’re very competitive. Well, I am at least. He’s very laid back. I just can’t let him win.
You should see me stare down a baby.
I was hoping that he would be in such awe of my amazing job that he’d come home and say ‘Why, Wife of Mine! You are the finest wife in all the land of Millwoods! Allow me to bestow upon you some additional coin for your shopping trip which I fully support and understand why you need to buy a bunch more clothes when you already own 40 pairs of jeans..’ (I really do. And I wear them all, Actually, I tried it one time, and I can go for 3 months without wearing any item of clothing twice. Wild, right? And not like fringed vets and shit either. Actually stylish gear)..’for I do not think that you have enough clothes already. Go forth and purchase, arm candy of mine!’ (He doesn’t talk like he’s from Game of Thrones, by the way. For some reason when I imagine scenarios like that in my head they usually involve a large field, slow motion, and a olde elizabethan accent).
What actually happened: I got cranky because shoveling was a lot more work then I anticipated and his truck leaves huge ice-covered tire marks on the driveway that I would slam into as I was pushing the shovel along the ground, causing me to stop with a start (oxymoron?) and jab the handle into my chest. Gasping for breath, as I am not blessed with mounds of boobie padding, I would curse the snow gods and Dodge for making such heavy friggin’ trucks. Shit heads, the lot of ’em.
It’s not my husband’s fault that some truck designer somewhere is overcompensating, but that didn’t occur to me at the time. I could have sprayed the truck with a hose to really teach it a lesson for effing with me, but it wasn’t there so I couldn’t (sidenote: I really did that one time. But I sprayed my mom’s house instead. I was pitching a fit about having a 930 curfew and how it was stifling my pre-pubescent life or something so I sprayed the house with a hose while my mother and brother watched from the, closed, living room window. ‘At least she does something productive with her anger’ was the comment made by my big brother. It’s a family legend now. ‘Don’t make Vanessa angry whatever you do, she might go spray the house!’ followed by laughter. Story for another time. I did a lot of really stupid things like that, trust me).
I just didn’t see being destructive as constructive. Where would that have gotten me? And i did throw mom’s shoes out on the lawn and that’s pretty bad ass, right…. which I took back in a put away because I felt bad for throwing them in the first place.
But I digress: When he got home and asked who had shoveled the driveway, and I responded ‘Me!’, his disbelief made the bruised bones under my B cup smart a little. Especially when he voiced that he thought that I had paid someone to shovel the driveway because the snow was too heavy and wanted to say that it was me who did it so he’d reward me with extra spending money for my shopping trip that I totally needed because I don’t own enough clothes already.
He knows me too well. Shit.
Eventually I convinced him that it had in fact been I. Luckily out friend Sharson (not her real name, but it is what we call her) was driving by as I grunted under the bone crushing weight from our frozen Northern mistress, my face contorted in an expression similar to when a child is brewing a super poop in her diaper, or behind a couch but thinks that if they keep the noise to a minimum you’ll be non-the-wiser. She was my proof. I messaged her and she messaged him, and POOF! one text message sent: Effort proven. Plus, she’s a HORRIBLE liar, even via text (sorry Sharson, I love ya, but you are really shitty at it).
My husband lovingly have me extra spending money for my trip. Not because he was so thankful that I shoveled the driveway for him and that he had doubted me (I imagined this in an ‘Oliver Twist’ish accent, btw), but because, as I mentioned before, the true sign of an addiciotn is whether you’ll do a sex act for it. Just ask my husband. He’ll tell you that I LOOOOOOOOVVVVVEEEE clothes…
… and hate snow.