Living the Winter Olympics

I’m generally a big fan of the Olympics, but this year I just can’t get into it.

I could blame it on the way the athletes dress. One look at those overgrown snow suits and I have flashbacks of the days of getting three little ones bundled up to play in the snow. Forty-five minutes of searching for boots, wrapping scarves, guiding fingers into gloves and not forty-five seconds out the door, one of them had to pee.

More than likely, it’s the weather. The weather here in Ohio—not in Vancouver. We’d kill for sunshine and temps in the 40’s. After ten days of snowfall totaling more than we normally get in a year, our yard looks like an organ donor center for snowmen. It’s not easy to get excited about games played in the snow. On purpose, no less.

We have a steep driveway. A very steep driveway. That said, it’s difficult to view bobsledding as a sport when we’re forced to do it each day. And here in the Midwest, we’re neither trained nor equipped for such events. The first time my husband made it into the garage after only three attempts, I waved the flag and hummed the Star Spangled Banner. He’ll deny it, of course, but I swear his lip quivered as he brushed away the hint of a tear.

In years past, when our average February temperatures were 10+ degrees above freezing, I loved to watch the figure skating. But this year, when we’re lucky to see the thermometer rise above single digits, ice in any form is not the least bit entertaining. It reminds me too much of my trip out for milk and bread before the last storm. I must say though, I am rather proud of the triple axel I nailed in the grocery parking lot.

I’d heard a lot about curling. I considered giving it a try, but curling sounds so much like hurling and we’ve had enough of that with that nasty virus our grandkids passed on. Anyway, from what I’ve heard about the sport, I imagine one of the highlights would be the face of a mother holding her temper as she watches her son using a broom—something he’d never touch while living under her roof.

Now the snow is finally beginning to melt. We’re seeing patches of grass and dirt, making it look a bit more like Vancouver here in Ohio. I may give the games another shot. I swear though, if another storm heads our way, I’ll put my Olympic viewing on hold until the summer games when those young guys in Speedos make the scene.

Snow News is NOT Good News

It’s been snowing forever. Well, maybe not forever, but for a long, long, long, long time. Long enough for me to imagine how Noah felt as he listened to the forecast a week or so into his ark voyage. Just how many cubits long would a toboggan have to be to get my family, friends, and me to the Caribbean?

I’ve tried my best to keep a positive attitude. Really I have. The first day, as the flakes tumbled from the sky, I forced myself to drink hot chocolate and smile as I acknowledged them as unique and heavenly creations. I got so into it I had to suppress the urge to name them.

The second day, I raised my mug and toasted the white blanket covering the lawn, the drive, and the street, giving thanks for the earth’s thermal insulator. Irish hot chocolate’s really not bad, but the marshmallows don’t hold up very well.

By the third day, I had an attitude, but it was far from positive. Unable to find his email address and too cheap to send a telegram, I wrote a letter to Punxsutawney Phil expressing, in no uncertain terms, my displeasure with his announcement of six more weeks of winter. I might have been a bit harsh with the furry fellow, but given the fact that Phil is a rodent who lives in a hole, telling him to stick his prediction where the sun doesn’t shine can be interpreted any number of ways.

As time passed I tried my best to cope. I decided to ignore the stuff and hope it went away. Sort of like the Congress and the Social Security shortfall. To that end, after finding the newspaper, which involved hours of digging, I clipped any references to snow, ice, and cold from its pages. By the time I was finished, it would fit in the palm, or on the palm of Sarah Palin’s hand.

One day I was so depressed by the local forecast that I read the one for Key West instead. 75 degrees and sunny! Ah, that was more like it. I turned up the heat, pulled out my flipflops, sprinkled kitty litter on the treadmill, hung a lightbulb from the celing, and walked my own private beach. I turned on some Jimmy Buffet music and was feeling much better until I heard a strange buzzing sound. I attributed it to the margeritas until I spotted the electric meter spinning out of control. My cheeseburger in paradise was fried.

I’m not normally a violent person, but yesterday I’d had it. I strapped tennis rackets to my feet in order to maneuver through the piles of snow. Armed with my hairdryer, I sauntered into the front yard and took aim at those freaking white flakes dive-bombing our once peaceful community. Our mail person gave me a thumbs up as I screamed Go ahead. Make my day! I didn’t get them all, but I took out quite a few. And it felt so good.

Today I’m removing every sign of winter from our home hoping Father Nature will take the hint. So far I’ve hurled a snow globe in the path of a plow. I’ve torched the first hundred pages of Dr. Zhivago. I’ve devoured four of the six boxes of Sno-Caps I’d hidden in the guest closet. Yet the meteorologist has the nerve to say more snow is headed our way. Eskimos have a zillion or so names for snow. Now I know why. Until it stops, I’ll be adding a few of my own.