Hey Old Broad Winter, I Got Your Back

winter broads

Dear Old Broad Winter,

As I’m sure you’re aware, people are talking about you and not in that, “Oh she looks good for her age,” way. (Because honestly, no one cares if people are talking about you if they are issuing commentary on your youthful looks or your tight buns.) It’s no real surprise that your actions would garner more attention than those of your weaker, wussier counterpart Old Man Winter. (Temps below -20 and hurricane snow could only come from a tough broad.)

Your takeover of society has been going solid for a few weeks, yet I’ve heard numerous ramblings across this land involving harsh, dare I say obscene words describing you. Old Broad Winter, let me apologize for humankind. They are simply not experiencing your wondrous glory as I and they know not what they say.

It seems other members of humanity don’t like these frigid temps and frequent snowfall because it leaves them housebound. To that I say, “Housebound? Hells yeah!” For a working mother exhausted by the constant pace of our school-year life, there is nothing, and I mean nothing better than being housebound in a manner that is totally beyond one’s control.

Housebound is the one time where mommy guilt cannot pry me out in search of an entertainment opportunity for my rambunctious offspring.

“Mom, can we go somewhere?”

“Nope- roads are too slick.”

Housebound is the only time I am able to tamp-down my latent Martha Stewart kitchen tendencies and slap a sub-par dinner on the table scrabbled together from scraps found in the pantry.

“Mom, what’s for dinner?”

“Whatever the hell I can find kids. Looks like tuna cakes, pickled beets and a side of Sponge Bob Mac and Cheese tonight.”

Housebound is the one time I can disregard my educator opinions regarding the negative effects of electronic devices on impressionable minds and comfortably say,

“Sure boys, you can have another 3 hours on the IPad. Just make sure there’s no shooting or bloodshed.”

Best of all, housebound is the one and only time when my word is gospel and even my most argumentative child does not feel the need to take it to the final stop.

“Mom can we go sledding?”

“No, it’s minus 14 out.”

“So? I can wear my snow pants and extra gloves.”

“Son, if you go sledding when it’s -14 degrees, within minutes your face will crack, your teeth will break off, your testicles will freeze into ice cubes and you’ll never be able to give me grandchildren.”

“Mom, that isn’t true.”

“Trust me. I’m a science teacher.”

“Seriously Mom.”

“Is that a risk you’d like to take Number One son?”

“No.”

“I didn’t think so.”

Old Broad Winter, I feel that those who disparage you simply are unable to see things my way. No, I’m not some sanctimommy who so loves the fruit of her loins that she feels said fruit can do no harm. Hells no. I understand the pain that can come from an extended period of time trapped with one’s offspring with snow falling and temps reaching somewhere near that of a polar bear’s butthole. But this year, in my aged genius I’ve found that answer. Embrace the Broad.

While my snow-day parenting may not be getting a segment on The Today Show any time soon, it is a viable survival method to get through extended bouts with Old Broad Winter.

This year I’ve changed my focus and instead of looking at a week of Siberian temps with dread and fear, I look at this as an opportunity to give my sofa a workout. I embrace the chance to mandate afternoon naps for all and spend quality time feeling the sensation of my dimpled thighs melting like hot butter over my sofa-pancakes.

When the time is right, I whip up a hot toddy (which may or may not have an extra shot for therapeutic reasons) and kick my tootsies up in front of a raging fire maintained by my loving Turk (who may or may not have pyromaniacal tendencies.)

When the shrieks of sibling rivalry bust my chill, I calmly suggest (from the sofa of course,) that the matter might best be solved by a cage-match in the playroom and remind all involved that should stitches be required, I will be doing them myself with a rusty needle and a shoelace. (One would be shocked by how successful a deterrent such imagery can provide. Give it a try.)

I also like to use this time to indulge in activities that won’t risk calorie burning. During times of glacial temps, one needs to keep all stored body fat and I am secure in the knowledge that the extra 20 pounds on my ass ensure my prolonged survival.

So Old Broad Winter, now that I’ve learned how to love you, I no longer dread you. I look forward to your interruptions to our hectic life. I’ll take your housebound sentence and raise a mug of hot whiskey in your honor. Bring it on Old Broad. This year, I might be one of your biggest fans.

 

 

Advertisements

January, You’re Dead To Me

january

I’m not a fan of January. I’ve tried over forty of them and have yet to find any redeeming qualities in a single one. They’re gray, depressing, boring and butt numbing cold. (Global warming, you suck.) I’ve given this one a solid try but I see it’s just like all the other Januarys and next week after the presidential inauguration, its suckage is just going to ramp up to epic levels. So I’ve made an executive decision. I’m not going to do January this year. I’m going to hide out until it’s over. Harsh? Drastic? Perhaps, but that’s how I roll. January, you’re dead to me.

I’m going into my pillow fort and I will not come out until January is safely passed. And if February, doesn’t start off strong I’m skipping that too. I’ve got enough supplies to stay in my pillow fort until March. (I’m a planner and stockpiler, yet still a safe distance from doomsday prepper.) I’ve decided I have no choice but to take drastic measures and thankfully, my Mediterranean blooded Turk is right with me on this one. (Which is great because usually in situations such as these he just gives me the side eye and mutters about my instability in Turkish.)

I’m sorry kids, but you are on your own for the next few weeks because neither of your parents can do January anymore.

I know, it may seem harsh to turn over self-survival to a guy who has not yet mastered the concept that pooping should occur in the toilet and not in his pants and his brother who hasn’t gotten past the sixes on the multiplication tables, but I don’t see any other way. January is too much and we as parents just… can’t.

Simply put, the Turk is genetically incapable of cold weather. His blood is thin and according to him, solidifies into ice crystals the moment temps drop below 40 degrees. My dear husband hunches like a turtle somewhere in mid-November and does not stand straight again until April. It’s been hard on him since he moved to this country but now that he is on the other side of 40, we have to worry more about the old man. I’d hate for him to stroke out due to freezing temps. (Though he does have stellar life insurance that would provide my children and I with a bungalow in a warmer climate…no…no…that thinking is wrong!)

As for me, I understand that due to my ample supply of body fat you might wonder why I am incapable of dealing with the cold. I don’t get it either but I’m old and old people have these issues. The cold makes me surly and slug-like and though I was able to combat it in my youth, with the combination of my advanced age and the impending doom coming with the January 20th presidential inauguration, this year I simply haven’t the will.

Kids, if you need to go anywhere, I’d suggest you pile a few of your father’s old engineering books on the seat of the car (they’re in Turkish and thus extra bulky) and give it a go. Number One Son, you should be able to see over the steering wheel while your brother Nugget navigates from the safety of his car seat. Just practice a few times around the block before you hit the open road. If anyone questions you, cite a medical condition for your small stature then accuse them of judgmental intolerance. That should get any pesky do-gooders off your back. (If that doesn’t work, let Nugget and his newly developed canine-calibur biting skills handle things.)  

If anyone needs us, I’ll be where I’ve been since January 1: with the cat in the barcalounger, huddled under my grandma’s old quilt, binge watching Stranger Things on my IPad using the kids headphones to block out the world and dreaming of finding a portal to a warmer dimension.

The Turk will be where he’s been since January 1 as well: in Number One’s new beanbag chair, three feet in front of the fireplace with his little Turkish tootsies baking in a roaring fire.

January, it’s over for us and this time, it’s definitely you, not me.

january1