“It’s like hugging an ice pack.” Gracelyn, age 7 3/4
Uttered upon giving the dadster a hug yesterday when he came in after starting the truck and shoveling it off.
It’s a mite bit cold out there folks. The dear husband assures me that it’s normal to have ice on the baseboards. And everyone has a storm door that is caked with a layer of ice and frost so thick it won’t defrost until May I’m sure.
When I asked why the walls are so cold to the touch, he offered (lovingly said, I’m sure) “it’s 20 below outside…what do you expect?” Hmm-mmm. And then something about that mom’s house (which I stupidly used as a comparison) is made with thicker wall studs (by a measly 2 inches which I guess makes a ton of difference) and is protected from the elements. Whereas this house is not. Duh.
Anyway. It’s cold. And the heaters have been running nonstop for a few days now…nonstop.
And this is a humongous BUT. Ginormous. Gigantic. Gigantosaurus-like.
I’m not HOT!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
I’m not hot.
Woo hoo hoo hoo hoooooo!!!!!!!!!!!
I’m actually cold. And am putting on a couple of sweaters at a time.
It’s fan-damn-tastic let me tell you.
Well, let me qualify that statement. The ice on the baseboards is not fantastic. The ice on all of the windows is not fantastic. The thickly-iced-up storm door is not fantastic. The electricity we must be using is not fantastic.
But I’m not hot.
Happy dance, happy dance. (For those of you new to my world, that of being a mad ranch wife, I simply cannot go into the details of the hotness I’m alluding to. But think about it a minute or two. Cogitate. Ruminate. It will come to you. Hint: woman, mid-40’s, wacked out hormones…yeah, that’s right. We’ll leave it right there thank you very much.)
The birds have been fed. Boy were they happy to see us yesterday afternoon. And the chickadees didn’t seem to mind my ski gloved hands. They landed just the same. Black sunflower seeds baby. Hard to resist.
We have a new flock that showed up a couple of days ago that I have yet to identify. Pretty though with pink streaked wings, black and gray caps, bright yellow beaks. The stellar jays have been getting a bit of competition!
And the chipmunks have finally gone to ground. Thank the lord. Those little pesky buggers are a pain in the kister.
However. Going to ground for them means entering our walls and setting up shop for a few months…or the attic…or the fireplace. Luckily I haven’t found them in the pantry yet. That’s just the domain of the mice. You would think that eventually the news would get back to all the little mouselings in the mouse families and the cousins and aunties and uncles and grandparents and parents and neighbors, etc, etc, etc, that this is NOT a mouse-friendly home. We’re back up to 10 traps now, placed strategically around the house. And dang if they don’t get sprung at the most annoying times. Do you know what it’s like to wake from a deep sleep in the wee hours of the morning (cue good ol’ Blue Eyes….”in the wee, small hours of the morning….”) to hear a mouse in it’s death throes, slamming the trap this way and that as the neurons fire haphazardly in their tiny little bodies. And then lay there, after surfacing from a dream in which suddenly there was this incessant banging of something odd, wondering if you should get up to check to see if the mouse is really, really dead (cue the Wizard of Oz munchkin mayor…”As coroner I must report, I thoroughly examined her. And she’s not only merely dead, she’s really most sincerely dead.”), or just with a caught paw or tail and trying desperately to get away.
Things that make me truly crazy, loco, off my rocker insane and truly mad.
Blessings be and stay warm!!