Random Thoughts On A Snowy Day

We have an Elf on the Shelf. Do you know about the Elf? He is a little elf that sits someplace in your home and each night "magically" travels to the North Pole to report to Santa about all the good and not so good things that you do and every time he comes back, he finds a different place to perch. This elf is supposed to help your children be a little better behaved at this very exciting (and fit-inducing) time of year.

Apparently our elf (named Ned) has his work cut out for him, because someone around here *coughMarycough* is having a very hard time with her behavior. She has seen more of her room than usual because she has become a big ball of sass. Sassy enough that when remind her that Ned will report both good AND bad behavior to Santa, she replies with a very emphatic 'I DON'T CARE!"

Can I just state here for the record that if the phrase "I don't care" died a very sudden and violent death, well, I wouldn't care?

Also, I cannot tell you the number of times that someone* has had to jump out of bed either very late or very early to make sure that the elf finds a new location to perch? Stupid elf. He should move his own damn self. Magical, my booty.

*You know that that someone is me, right? I didn't really need to spell that out for you, did I?


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I grew up in Central Illinois where there is a sandwich called a horseshoe. It is an open face sandwich consisting of toast topped by some kind of meat (usually a hamburger patty, a chicken patty, or shaved ham or turkey) which is in turn smothered in a delectable cheese sauce--NOT CHEEZ WHIZ-- and then topped by fries. Delicious? Absolutely. Healthy? Um, not so much, which is why I only make them about once a year.

Most people here in Central Indiana have never heard of them, but I think that they would go over big.

Now, this next bit is seemingly unrelated, but bear with me. My husband used to own a couple of guns. I had never been around guns growing up and had only seen them on the hips of police officers. When we were first married, my beloved took me to a firing range and taught me how to shoot. I shot a .22 and it was a very fun, very powerful, and curiously freeing experience. However, when we started a family, we decided that they served no purpose in our home and my husband sold his guns.

Recently he has taken to perusing the Sunday fliers for Dick's and Gander Mountain and wistfully declaring that he "needs" a gun. My reply is always the same: "Have you met our son, Sean? We don't need a gun. That's a combination that never needs to be seen." He then responds that he needs it for protection or for the end of the world when he will have to defend our home from looters or Tea Party activists. I usually end the discussion with "You'll shoot your eye out, kid."

Lately however, I have been rethinking my argument. I am thinking that my beloved and I could go into business together and we could serve the hungry gun enthusiasts in the area. Here's my idea: we open a combination lunch counter/guns and ammo store. We'll have a very limited menu. In fact, we'll only serve horseshoe sandwiches. We'll call the place Horseshoes and Hand Grenades.

Whaddaya think? Will we make a million billion dollars and be able to afford college for our offspring?

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Snow days for my children=awesome.
Snow days for teachers= a surprise, much-deserved day off.
Snow days for me= a sudden urge to brave the negative windchills and build my own igloo to move into. By myself. Alone.

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I just finished making homemade turtle candies and I defy you to find a better combination of things. It is a flavor trifecta of perfection. And if you get to enjoy one while looking out the window and watching your child build a snow fort? Well that's just bonus perfection. (It is too a term!)

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I think the writers for "The Middle" have a camera hidden in my home.

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My husband is much nicer than I. He spent an hour or so this morning snow blowing our driveway and the walks and driveways of some of our neighbors. Even the crazy, nutbar, neighbors that don't think much of us.

I would have spent that time thinking of ways to write, um, "stuff" on their snow. In urine.

Yeah, his way is probably nicer.

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I think that every weather forecaster should be required to live in a Northern state (Minnesota, Michigan, Upstate NY, Montana, etc.) for several years before they are let loose on the public. That way, they don't spend a solid week talking about a big storm that might be coming that might possibly bring snow in amounts that haven't been determined yet but could be measurable. Maybe. Possibly.

After they have plugged block heaters into their engine during the winter, then they can forecast.* After they have shoveled out of 20+ inches of snow, then they can forecast.* After they have thrown warm water into the air and watched it change into ice crystals, then they can forecast.* After they have had a governor cancel school for an entire state, then they can forecast.* After they have driven a vehicle across a frozen lake, then they can forecast. ** Until then, they need to remember: it's just snow. We live in Indiana. It's December. Snow happens. Two inches is not a lot--even when the wind is blowing hard, chances are pretty good that things will get better in a few hours. There is not really any reason to spend 20 minutes of a 30 minute news broadcast talking about the what-ifs. (Can you tell this subject makes me a little cranky?) And yet they suck me in every time.

*All things that I did when living in Minnesota.
** Something that I saw others do but was waaaaay to chicken to attempt while living in Minnesota.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm going to go calm myself by eating a turtle. Or seven.