Matt leaves to ski resort early on the morning, he volunteers there for the ski safety (read: he skis the whole day and makes sure nobody does crazy stuff).
He calls me on the way. “Just wanted to let you know, Frank ran away and didn’t come back before I left”. Frank is our dog.
Great, so I have a runaway dog, hopefully coyotes are not going to eat him in the darkness. We live in the middle of freakin’ nowhere, and four neighbours have lost their dogs this past couple of years for hungry coyotes.
I wake up the kids, thank God we had put the clothes ready already last night.
There is a big local happening called snowdown today, and they always have a theme for the parade, the contests, and all kinds of happenings around the town and the ski resort. This year’s theme is medieval – and everybody dresses as knights, maidens and sorcerers and dragons, princesses or jesters. The parade is tonight and kids can already dress up for school, and we had made girls’ princess outfits ready and they are waiting on the bedside this morning.
But Gaby has a huge fit, and says he doesn’t want to dress up for school, because it’s “stupid” and she is not going to be a princess, she hates dresses and she wants to wear jeans. So jeans it is.
The breakfast isn’t much better, the fridge doesn’t reveal any butter on Gaby’s bagel, so she has another fit, but finally eats her bagel with just jelly.
Finally I get three kids ready to go, and luckily the crazy runawy dog appears to our yard. He doesn’t want to come inside though, and we need to go! I pack the kids in the car, and hope that when I start the car, the dog will run to us and then I’m able to catch him.
The car doesn’t start on the first try. On the second try it does, and I can see the reason – it’s 10F and the car is really low on gas (35 miles left tells my computer in the dashboard, the needle is like below the red light). Great.
I step back outside and try calling Frank – no, he isn’t coming. I wouldn’t mind him hanging out on the yard while I just drop kids off at school, but I’m afraid he will try to follow me. So I start driving, and then I see him running like crazy towards me and I just open the trunk for him. That’s fine, he can come for a drive with us.
Girls barely make it to school on time, and me and the boys head to gas station. I sigh of relief, we make it to the gas station, I get a whole tank full, and we head back home.
On our driveway (150 yards long or so) I get stuck in the snow.
It’s been snowing over 3 feet in the last week, and well, the drive isn’t as well shoveled as it should be. My dear husband has been in charge of that. He of course has a 4×4 Jeep, not a city Volvo like me.
And I try driving it out, but it is STUCK. I can’t even get out of the car from driver’s door, because there is snow up to the window. I get off the car, walk back to the house, get a shovel and literally start digging my car out of snow. I try adding snow chains to the other front wheel, but don’t have much luck with that. I’ve never used snow chains before (we use studded tires in Finland, chains are for tourists), and I can’t get them in. I do get my white Ralph Lauren down jacket all black, and it just adds to my angriness.
I shovel more. I try getting the car out of the snow.
I call my husband, and he doesn’t offer much help.
I try calling my best friend, I am on the edge, and I don’t know whether I’m going to laugh or cry. She doesn’t answer.
I even taught my 5 year old son to push the gas pedal while I tried pushing the car. Didn’t work, but at least he was having a blast. 45 minutes later I just give up and walk home.
Well, the whole town should be full of knights to help me, but I can’t reach any to come and rescue me. One of my friends has a backup plan to get my girls off school if my car isn’t unstuck by the time they get off, and while talking to her on phone, Kris yells at me “Frank pooped in my room!”
What the…? When did that dog have time to poop in my kid’s room, and wasn’t he just outside for an hour and half?
I get off the phone and wash the floor, and I am so mad I’m ready to kill somebody. Probably my husband, it’s his fault anyway. How ever sweet he is, doing the grocery shopping, cooking dinner four nights in a row, taking the girls to dentist yesterday… it still is always his fault when something like this happens.
He was the one using the car last, he should have filled the tank. He didn’t close the trash can well enough and the dog got into the chicken bones and feels a little cuckoo now after eating them. He didn’t shovel the whole driveway.
I’m going to let the whole world to know how this is all his fault, I’m going to blog about it.
Then he calls, says he is in his way to help me. “Make a cup of latte, just relax, you don’t have anything to worry about, I’ll come and help you”.
Now, that’s what I’m talking about, my Knight in shiny armour.