The snow on the patio furniture was about a foot deep this morning. It was dazzling to look at, but Skitter’s never happy when she doesn’t have enough clearance to squat without her butt getting in the snow when she needs to do her business. With her task completed, Skitter hustled her pampered doggie self right back into the house. The stunt Bow Tie’s o’ the Day, on the other hand, frolicked the entire day away in the wind and chill, even as the bigly snowflakes fell again and again. Bow Tie Angels were everywhere.
I have made no secret of the fact that I do not generally like to suffer the cold—even for purposes of play. A little outside cold goes a long way with me. I don’t remember freezing temperatures being so bothersome to me when I was wee, but now that I’m verging on The Really, Really Old Side Of Middle Age, I just say NO to opportunities to romp in brrrrr temps.
I do love to gander at winter landscapes if I can do it from the warmth of the Great Indoors. Also, driving slowly on gravel roads through cold, snowy, desert landscapes in a heated, beat-up pick-up truck is an undeniably amazing experience. If it’s not on your Bucket List, put it on your list right now. Trust me. If you take such a drive in the desert west of Delta, you’ll think you’ve died and returned to life in a snow globe. The sky out that way is just plain that bigly.
Anyhoo… When I was 6 or so, every time it snowed, a certain male member of my family took great pleasure in telling me that boys are better than girls for the simple “fact” that they can pee their names in the snow. It bothered me to no end that I had to suffer through this family member’s constant taunting about a stoopid lie. I knew darn well boys weren’t better than girls, but it annoyed the heck out of me to hear it.
One snow-covered Delta day when I was pestered about this “fact” again, I’d finally had it. I said to the male member of my family, “I’ll bet you $5 I can pee my name in the snow.” The bet was on; my coat was on; my pants were off; and I hop-peed my name in the snow across the front yard. Before I was finished, somebody (or somebodies) in the neighborhood had called Mom to ask if I was ok. Mom brought the long-corded phone receiver and opened the front door. She asked me what I was doing, and I told her exactly what I was up to. I heard her then say calmly into the receiver, “She’s just peeing her name in the snow to win a bet. She’s just about done, and then she’ll put her pants on again.” Nothing fazed Mom.
Later, through the picture window, while I was warming up by the fireplace, I watched various neighborhood kids—and an adult neighbor or two— make a pilgrimage to our front yard, where they paused to admire my doomed-to-melt masterpiece. I had peed a blow for girlkind!
