Well, I’m depressed. I’ve had enough snow already. I could use a dose of sunshine. Dan just left to go to the office (two hours late) because his boss is Satan. I’m going to have knots in my stomach all day a) imagining him dead on the highway and b) placing one of my most intense hexes on the she-devil who insists he arrive at work or lose one of his very limited vacation days.

 

On a positive note, it’s another day I get to bask in my own earthiness. That’s right, as a personal protest to all of this snow and Dan’s having to leave me to a life of high blood pressure and anxiety medication, I’ve decided not to bathe or brush my teeth. (Do you want a kiss?)

 

In a sick way, it feels kind of pleasant.

 

But then again, anything’s an upgrade from this past weekend with Steppy. So NOT delightful. Rolling naked in a 24-hour ongoing avalanche of snow and ice would have probably hurt less than her behavior toward me this past Saturday and Sunday. Paying homage to the Olympics, she delivered the perfect trifecta of gut kicks:

 

1. After waking up at 11, she came into the basement where Dan and I were exercising, gave him and the dogs a jolly “Good morning!” followed up by a few long hugs and looked at me (doing my “Firm” tape) as if I were Freddie Krueger with an axe. This is typical. She never says good morning to me. Ever. Not without eventual prompting from her father.

 

2. After a lovely day with friends (with kids)—during which she sat and looked as if she’d rather be getting shot up with Gardasil—she picked a fight with me in the car on the ride home about my cursing too much. I hadn’t cursed once. This is despite the Pink CD playing in the background, during which Pink curses approximately 12 times. Did she have a problem with that? No. Why? Because she loved Pink. Couldn’t demand Pink to stop. So I thought, “Smart Pink. Living in Hollywood. Being a rock star. Having no stepchildren.” Brilliant.  

3. The next morning, Steppy went into the basement with her dad to retrieve some photos of the dogs and people here in Pennsy. (She lives with her mother in Maryland.) She wanted to post them in her locker at school. She came upstairs with about 10 pictures: The dogs, Dan, his other children—who, by the way, she hasn’t seen in years and never talks to. Was there a photo of me in the bunch? No. When I said, “I guess I don’t count,” her response was “Do we have any more hot chocolate?”

 

I know these may seem like small things. I know she’s not even 13. I know she’s in a tough situation, being the child of divorced parents who gets schlepped back and forth between three states. And I know I’m sensitive. (We artist types usually can be.) But when you’re a giver (which I am) and a person (which I am) who’s always being treated as if she doesn’t exist (which I am)—doesn’t count—doesn’t have feelings, well, it’s not so fun. This whole Steppy thing.

 

But then again, I guess being treated like a stink bug in winter puts the weather in some kind of perspective.  ‘Cause if I think about it, step-parenting makes 85 inches of snow look like 75 degrees and sunny.

 

And I’m going to run with that. For now. In the meantime, c’mon spring. Perhaps that will help.

 

Until next time!

I’m working from home today and as I walked past my own reflection in the French glass door that leads to our basement (which houses our now beloved treadmill and a very chipped and battered hallway, see previous post), I realized something, well, unpleasant:

 

I’m shrinking.

 

And not the way I’d like. Not in the way that calls for a clean diet, regular exercise, a pair of smaller sized jeans, and a demure amount of cortisol.

 

But in actual height. The sad thing is, I wasn’t exactly a towering inferno before today, when I noticed my dwindling self in a freshly Windex-ed image.

 

Oh God.

 

The long and short of it is: I’m a short person getting shorter. Going from 5’ 3” (wink wink) to 5” not-as-much, which sucks.

 

Sorry all short people, nothing personal, but it does. (You know it does.)

 

Now you should know that for most of my life, I’ve longed to be taller. Give me 5’ 6”, even 5′ 5” (the relative height of my mother) and I’d have been happy – had more leeway for a couple of extra pounds, not appeared so compact.

 

When I was younger, my mother would say, “If only we could stretch you…” alluding to the fact that I’d look and actually be better if I were longer.

 

Now that I think about it (revelation alert), that’s probably how I came to be so brazen and outspoken in life. (Read: Loud)

 

If I couldn’t be tall in stature, I’d make sure to be tall in presence and voice. I’d push out my thoughts on the written page, elevate my voice to above normal decibels, make sure nobody would miss me in a room full of whoever.

 

If nothing else, “they’d” all know I was there–whether I was the size of a battleship or a rubber duckie.

 

But now, I notice, that at least physically, I’m just a little less tall than the girl in my metaphors.

 

To which I must ask: When does this middle-age give up? I mean, seriously. I’m not ready to start shrinking. I know it happens, but I’m just not there yet. I haven’t yet abandoned the dream of tallness, or naturally blonde hair down to my a#* — or limbs as long as street lamps.

 

I’m just not up for the task of shortening a closet full of already-whacked hems.

 

Yet, now that it’s happening (whether I like it or not), I have to wonder what’s coming next? Am I just going to shrink until nobody sees me anymore? Become a tiny speck in a bright red Honda Element driving innocently along —one lone flowing chin hair waving out of the driver’s side window?

 

Okay, I’ll stop now. It’s clear, I’m a bit cranky. And I recognize that somebody may read this while they’re eating. But still…

 

Is anybody else shrinking? (Dear lord, please tell me you are…) Write. I beg you.

 

Until next time.

Saw my cow again today on the side of the road. Turns out, he’s in front of the Chick-Fil-A, not Ruby Tuesdays (my husband had to educate me on the campaign to “eat more beef”, shows you how much I know about our fast food nation).

It was great to see him. He looked good, cozy and warm in a blue fleece. I waved again. You know, I think he really appreciated it. (Although, the gal in the Ford Focus driving next to me? Not so much…) Okay, gotta work. More later …

Yesterday morning, I saw some guy dressed in a cow suit standing out on Easton Road/611 in front of the Ruby Tuesdays, waving to the traffic. For some reason, it gave me a giddy rush. As I passed, I waved back fairly strenuously and honked my horn. Made me feel stupid and whimsical all at once.

I liked it.

I’m sure that cow isn’t out there today. If he is, he’s not only braver than I thought, but surely covered by several feet of snow and probably in need of emergency services.

Can’t stop thinking about him. (Sorry honey, I do love you more than cow-drifter.) Hope he’s warm.

Oh well, off to stare at the snow. It’s pretty amazing. (I think I just heard the news anchor say they’ve called in the National Guard.) It’s more snow than I’ve seen in a long long while. There’s really not much more to say than that, although I did take a picture of our back deck and send it to my father’s cell phone, asking him if he wishes he were here. He and my mother are in Florida, where they’ve been complaining about too much rain.

He doesn’t. (Wish he were here, that is.)

Okay, that’s all I’ve got for this post. I’m tired and I’ve got lazy snow brain and it’s clogging all other thinking. I hope you’re all doing well, staying nice and toasty, and visualizing greener pastures.

Enjoy the blizzard. And remember, there is nothing like a state-of-emergency inspired thundersnow (they say thunder may be coming, just before the locusts) to feed the soul in winter…

Until next time!

Today, I picked up a message from Brian at Moody Movers. He was FINALLY calling me back from a message I’d left on Saturday afternoon. It said this: “Hey, this is Jill Murray and I’m calling because I’m wondering if you might be able to help us with, well, a moving problem. See, my husband is trapped in the basement stairwell by a 350-pound treadmill, upright and tilted ever so slightly on its side, constricted by two hard walls and a railing, and roped to a large wooden pallet. Not my husband, the treadmill that is. (Nervous laugh.) Anyway, I could go on and on, gosh, but if you happen to get this message, well, soon, please give me a call. Much appreciated.”

 

Course, they didn’t respond until Wednesday morning, which doesn’t exactly inspire me to keep their number for future reference. “Gimme a call,” Brian said, “if you still need help with that treadmill.”

 

Yeah, okay Brian. Thanks a bunch.

 

————————————————————————-

 

So you’re probably wondering what the heck happened. Well, I’ll tell you: It’s amazing how the best laid plans can turn on you. On Saturday morning, I had it all figured out: I’d scheduled a hair appointment for 9 a.m. so I could be out of dodge, so to speak, when the Sears folks came to deliver the monster of a treadmill we bought the previous weekend.

 

Scheduled to arrive between 9 and 11, I said to myself, “Self, let your handsome husband deal with that.” (Heavy lifting is, after all, a man’s job. You know it is, don’t write me.) I figured my job was to look as good as humanly possible, despite all my middle-aged mishigas. You know, focus on better hair, better nails, better skin. Better day.

 

So imagine my surprise when, as I’m paying up at the salon register, my cell phone buzzes and it’s my handsome husband, calling to find out where I am. I immediately know there’s trouble since he NEVER does that. To the contrary, he’s always a little too pleased when I have a plans. That’s the only time (or so he says) he gets to watch monster movies and eat buffalo wings without my harping on him about his arteries bursting like a wild meteor or insisting we check to see what’s on Lifetime.

 

But not this time.

 

No, no, he wanted to know where I was for a reason. He NEEDED me for a solution to some massive problem. And so, I answered the call, reluctantly, preparing myself for a big one.

 

“Hi honey. Everything good?”  I ask.

 

“Yeah, uh huh. Just fine.”

“Treadmill come?” I’m wincing now.

 

“Oh yeah.”

 

“Delivery guys gone?”

 

“Oh yeah. I let them go over an hour ago.”

 

Already a bad sign.

 

“Treadmill in the basement, where it needs to be?”

 

“Oh no. It’s stuck in the stairwell. Almost on its side. Strapped into a wood pallet. Say, what time do you think you’ll be home?”

 

——————————————————————————————–

And so, you can see where I’m going here. I always figured, by this time of life, this stuff would be, well, easy. Disease, death, wrinkles, aging parents, regrets, and hair in the most unimaginable places – that’s the stuff we’d have to figure out. But moving crap? We’d just pay people to do that for us. And if we got something from Sears, well heck: They’d have to do it. It’s part of their branding.

 

But what I didn’t bank on was this: That when I decided to leave my handsome husband alone with delivery men, he’d release them before the job was done. Had I been there, well, forget about it. That treadmill may still have been in the stairwell, but there would have also been two guys in a Sear’s uniform wrestling it into the basement.

 

Lesson learned: Never leave handsome husband alone with delivery guys.

 

Good to know, but of absolutely no use to me when, after much deliberation over whether to go home, I arrived to find my husband now trapped in said stairwell, captive in a corner on the first landing.

 

I can only imagine the look on my face when I find him.

 

“Oh dear.”

 

“Now, don’t freak out,” he says. “All I need you to do is grab hold of the lower left part of the pallet and lift straight UP. When you do, be careful not to drop on your foot–and watch for splinters. Also, hold steady and don’t waver. VERY IMPORTANT. Keep it up and slightly pointed left. Like an inch or so on its diameter. And wait until I say ready…while you do that, I’m going to straighten out this middle part and pull ever-so gently out the bottom and towards this top step…” He points with his right toe since he’s steadying the treadmill with both hands.

 

“Are you kidding?”

 

“What’s ‘at, babe?”

 

“I just had my hair done.”

 

“Looks nice!”

 

“I’m in three-inch Rocket Dogs.”

 

“Huh?”

“It’s my day off.”

 

“Yep.”

 

“Just lift it straight up? Honey, it’s 350 pounds. On a wood pallet that’s easily as wide as our Honda Element. Who do you think I am? Godzilla? And this Nordic Track is Faye Raye? How far do you think the delivery guys have gotten. Do you think they’re still in the development?”

 

“Aw c’mon. We can do this! Unless you think you can’t, because the last thing I want is for you to get hurt.” I did not miss the irony in that, with my husband, balancing the treadmill, sweating, looking like he needs either a small blood transfusion or, at the minimum, a bottle of Gatorade.

 

And so, after a few contemplative moments, I kick off my platform mules and give it my best shot. Who am I to run from a challenge? (After all, I did spend the better part of my life dating.) And after some moving back and forth (along with a few skipped heartbeats and intense palpitations), we get it off the top landing and onto the bottom, where my handsome husband assures me he can take it from there.

 

Of course, still quite concerned, at that point, I lay our health insurance cards neatly on the kitchen table and place a slightly hysterical call to Moody Movers just in case things didn’t go as well as Dan hopes. Then, I make him the world’s largest tuna sandwich WITH sweet pickles (very important detail). And in lieu of taking a Xanex, I proceed to eat the leftover hamburger in the refrigerator without even chewing.

 

“There’s a little something waiting for you once you get the treadmill on solid footing,” I yell to him, midway through my lunch, not wanting to check and see what he’s doing or if he’s made any progress or whether he’s broken a limb, digit, or anything else by now. “And I think you’re gonna like it!”

To which I hear him squeak: “Is it sex?”

 

Good grief.

 

“NO. A SANDWICH.”

 

He deserves that. I’d never have let those Sears guys leave.

 

And now, I’m off to do 20 quick minutes on that puppy, which we eventually do get into the basement without injury (took us eight hours), nestled between the PowerWave punching bag and the large sofa with the broken leg I got in Chicago some 15 years ago.

 

Better the couch than me or my husband.

 

Until next time!