|Buried in snow, buried in stuff, just buried.
||[Feb. 8th, 2010|11:52 am]
Yes, so okay, I can eat more calories in a day than I can burn off, even though I shoveled several times my body weight in snow. The driveway and car are clear, the sidewalk is clear, the drains are clear (yes, kidlets, because when this stuff starts to melt, you do want it to have someplace to go), the heatpump is clear, Mommacat's house is clear, the freaking fire hyrdrant is clear because I am THAT kind of a citizen and we can get to the trash cans, the shed. And yes, of course, the Captain is a snow-moving machine; I didn't do it all myself. But still, I exerted myself. |
But the "hey, it's the superbowl, so I can have a bag of Lays' Potato chips" and having happy hour start at 1pm have taken a toll on my overall mass. Plus there's the S'Mores Brownies.
You'd think I'd be a cooking fiend -- and heaven knows I have a lot of food in the house, but I've been restrained, mostly because there is 30 inches of snow outside and 12 square feet of laundry inside. The downstairs remains in reasonable shape - in need of work, certainly, but I wouldn't have to die of shame, if someone came over.
However, I am conscious that something COULD happen to me and if someone came upstairs, I would have to die AGAIN, of shame. Because Jesus has nothing on WASPs who will reincarnate on the spot, just so that they can die of embarrassment over what a mess they left behind. If I ever fall into a coma, just show up at my bedside and say loudly "Well, I'll give her until Thursday and then I'm going up to that bedroom and give it a good cleaning." I have no doubt, I'll pop right out of that twilight, probably hollering "I swear to god, vacuuming under the bed was on my list this week, but then this damn coma thing...and I can explain the bag of pistachios in my sock drawer, just wait a minute, let me get my shoes on."
That's why New Englanders live so long. Because it's never in good enough shape to leave behind. OR, it's perfect and we don't want anyone to mess it up. We come in two basic flavors. Or, we move down south or to the west coast, where the expectations are lower. South, of course, being New York and below.
So, anyway, I've been cleaning. Oh, who am I kidding? Putting crap away so that I can get to cleaning. The only reason the downstairs is passable is because we moved all the crap upstairs. Which wasn't too bad, until Pushkin, the a-hole cat, started to help.
Pushkin weighs 14 pounds, which is not record breaking, but he's not a very big cat. And he's not fat. He is just the world's most dense cat. He's a solid rectangle of catbrick. He is capable of extraordinary feats -- launching himself up onto the top shelf of anything. But there's nothing lightfooted about him. So, it's like throwing a bowling ball up on a shelf. It's going to roll and something is going to come down with it.
So the semi-neatly binned Christmas decorations and Bin o'Ribbon and Bin o'sewing stuff and Bin o'fabrics and Bin o'crafts, that were stacked in the guest room, on the beds, obviously without their lids SECURED with Anti-Pushkin...have all wound up tipped over, lids and contents akimbo, in a giant heap.
I actually saw him topple one tower - leaping ever so gracefully from the floor to the very top of a stack of three bins on one of the beds. Which was fine, but then he had to take his immensity all the way over to the edge of one of the bins...and because it's on a bed, and Pushkin is almost dense enough to create a catblackhole, as he got to the edge, the whole stack started to dip in his direction. And rather than go back to the middle...
He leaps off the edge, pushing off the very lip of the bin lid with his immense psi-feet, flipping the bin sideways, knocking it and the two underneath it, all on their sides, strewn across the bed, knocking into a second stack of bins, the topmost bin of course, being the bin o'ribbons, so at least one hour yesterday was spent rolling up all of the spools and bits of ribbons thrown all over the room.