Back In The High Life Again

For those of you who asked for photos of the snow, I give you my house, which is virtually unrecognizable compared to its normal form. Like, from this photo, you cannot even tell what it normally LOOKS LIKE. I’m not worried about anyone appearing on my doorstep, because GOOD LUCK FIGURING OUT WHICH ONE IS MINE IN THE DRIFTS. The whole neighborhood looks THE SAME. Entire trees are buried! My CAR is in there somewhere! (Can you see the very wee tippy top of my car? I DRIVE AN SUV. THE SUV IS TOO SHORT FOR THE DRIFTS.)

I got out today, and it changed my life, dudes. I went to a friend’s house with other friends, and I laughed and I had conversations and my kid played with toys that weren’t hers, and I came back and did something other than lie about on the couch like a bump on a pickle and THIS. This is living, people. Putting on real pants and drinking coffee made by someone else’s coffee pot and HOO BOY, that’s the high life, right there.

It’s really a shame we’re getting more snow on Saturday, then.

I mean, seriously.

Meanwhile, the other morning, Adam accosted me just out of bed and was all, “You peed in the middle of the night and it SMELLED TERRIBLE. I had to GET UP AND FLUSH THE TOILET! It WOKE ME UP!”

Um, okay, several things: 1) I did not pee. No one did. 2) When was the last time someone PEED in the NEXT ROOM and woke someone up with the stench? OMFG. 3) His statement was immediately followed by, “WAIT, I STILL SMELL IT. DID YOU JUST PEE AGAIN?”

Um, no.

The culprit? The chicken stock I had simmering all night in the crock pot, which apparently smells like foul pee. Looking forward to making rice pilaf with it! Viva la urine rice!

Separately, and apropos of LITERALLY nothing, we’re in the throes of researching our trip to the Caribbean (because after the January we had, OH YES) without our precious offspring (thank you, parents!) and I almost had a panic attack looking at the pictures of scuba diving that popped up in a travel website. Mind you, I have always thought that scuba diving would totally be on my life list if I had one, but here we are five or six trips to the Caribbean in, and I’ve never gone, thinking, oh, next time! I’ll get certified first and go next time! And then today happened and I saw a photo of dolphins underwater, and I realized that right then and there, if something large and dolphin-like, no matter how friendly, came towards me underwater, I would do one of two things: a) die, right then and there; b) lose utter control of my bowels.

I’m going with Option B, and then the poop would attract OTHER wildlife, and then I would die anyway, because I would be eaten.

Thus, it is declared: I will never go scuba diving and I am perfectly okay with this. For God’s sake, I have a FEAR of LARGE THINGS underwater, AND I am a little claustrophobic and NO. NO.

I will also never, ever venture into space, no matter how accessible and affordable it becomes. I don’t care if Richard Branson himeffingSELF wants to fly me up in a private rendezvous with Alexander Skarsgard, Philip Seymour Hoffman (what?) and TIM EFFING RIGGINS (yes, I know he’s fictional, STOPIT). I AM NOT GOING INTO SPACE.

And finally, a few photos of Sam that are KILLING ME. This is actually the third and fourth in a series of her in the same outfit, same place in the house. And yet, things go horribly awry between photo three:

And photo four:

Since these photos were taken long enough ago that I have absolutely no idea what happened, or WHY I kept snapping instead of stepping in, I’m totally blaming Elmo, lying there all innocent-like. That little red bastard stuck his foot out, I KNOW he did.

Happy weekend!

*Steve Winwood. Whatever, don’t mock me, it was a great album.

25 comments February 3rd, 2011