Winter Gripes

Ok. I know that I shouldn’t be allowed to do this, being from Minnesota and everything, but I am going to go there. I need to get it out of my system. Just this one time.

Winter sucks. It doesn’t suck when you are sitting inside your cozy home watching the picturesque snowflakes falling slowly outside your window. You know the type I am talking about, the ones that bring the real Christmas cheer. 

But it does suck when over a foot of snow is dumped on you in a less than a week and you live out in the country on a back road that they plow once after every snow fall and you work forty five minutes away which makes traveling difficult, and the negative sixteen degree weather makes your son’s nasal cavity stuff up so you listen to him and your hubby snore at night.  

Not to mention that the snow made the Metrodome’s roof collapse and tear twice in roughly four days, which threw the sports community of Minnesota into complete mayhem.

Not to mention the horrible drivers that live in Minnesota that think they’re wonderful drivers because they drive in harsh conditions every year. Honestly, when a snow storm hits you could easily believe Minnesota was Florida if it weren’t for the fifty mile per hour winds blowing eight inches of snow everywhere. Seriously.

Hazardous snow driving tip #1: if you have four-wheel drive, use it. 

Hazardous snow driving tip #2: because you have four-wheel drive does not mean you can drive the normal speed limit. It just means that you should have a less likely chance of sliding your way into a ditch. If you’re smart.

A tip for driving on ice: just because it is sunny out and temps have reached above zero, still drive like a sane logical human being. It’s ice, it’s slippery, and it still zero degrees outs. That means the ice is still frozen. Jeez.

I know this is a rant and I wish I were done, but I am not.

Because I always seem to kill animals when the weather is bad.

You think I am kidding you. (Raccoon Killer).

Today is no exception. 

Today I killed a cat.

Pretty sure it was a fluffy orangey domesticated cat. It paused before it made the fateful decision to race across the still icy, but snow dusted back country road that rarely get plowed. 

Now, had this been a regular day I would have slammed on my breaks and this kitty would have crossed to the other side safely. 

But today was not regular. It literally has been snowing since last night. LAST NIGHT. And three days ago it rained a lot before it snowed and the roads are so icy.

Had this kitty know this, it would have stayed inside. And  I wouldn’t have let a curse word fly threw my thoughts as I decided to not step on the breaks and roll my Jeep which was carrying me and my precious sleeping son.

But always leave it to the hubby to make me feel better.

 

“So babe, I am pretty sure I killed a cat today.” I say this with a pained look on my face.

He looks at me sympathetically and shrugs, “It happens. Don’t feel bad.”

“Not this was like a fluffy domesticated cat.”

“Well I almost hit a dog last week. It was definitely a house dog.” I listen intently to his story, but the look on my face isn’t cutting it.

 “And I almost hit several pheasants this morning.” He adds on.

“That doesn’t count, they’re wild. This was a cat.” I say dubiously.

“It’s okay.” He repeats. “It happens.” That was the extent of his sympathy. 

Dang these Minnesota winters, and dang these snows storms. (But I can't lie I did come out of it all with some pretty good photos.)

Things that go Thump

When it snows in the country, it can give you the feeling of being wrapped in a warm blanket, especially when you know you have now where to be. 

So when the weatherman predicted that snow would be descending on southern Minnesota for the weekend I was excited. I had two days off of work, a house to clean, a little boy to cuddle with and romance novel to get lost in. 

But what really happens.

The power goes off. 

This isn’t that big of a deal, until you live in an old house in the middle of nowhere. 

Then you get scared witless. 

I know I have chronicled the hubby’s creeped out feelings about living in an old house, but now it is my turn.

Saturday morning the hubby had left for work, braving an unplowed road with three inches of freshly fallen snow and I had settled in to the task taming the wildness of what we call home. I was making great progress. Darren was fed and playing, the dishwasher was running and I was finally folding mountain of clothes that covered our kitchen table. 

Being comfortable with the sounds our old house makes and with the fact that it can be weird sometimes, I didn’t even blink when the lights flickered and dimmed every once in a while.

Then the power goes out and puts a wrench in my housewifely duties. 

In all honestly, I didn’t mind. I just proceeded to wrap Darren and me in a blanket. As I start playing with him I try to shake off the feeling of eeriness. 

The house it completely quiet. No water heater or furnace kicking in. No nothing. 

Except Darren’s trying to have a serious conversation with me.

“UUUUUUUUUbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbeeeeeeeeeeer, EEEEEEEEEEAaaaaaaH”

“Really, man? I know the power went out but it’s ok.”

 

“Bababababababa…bbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaauuuuuuuuuh.”

“I agree. We should text daddy and let him know.” I pull out my phone which Darren tries to confiscate.

Then….

THUD. THUD

Then…

The house shudders.

My heart drops and my ears going into hyper hearing mode. Every few moments there are thuds coming from above, these are followed by the house shuddering.

My mind goes into overdrive. Then I remember my sister-in-law swearing her and my brother heard someone walking around upstairs one night during a thunderstorm. My heart starts beating in my throat.

Then I tell myself to stop being so ridiculous. There is a perfectly explainable reason for all these noises in a quiet house. 

After twenty minutes a pure freaked out weirdness, and visions of a translucent ghost appearing in the doorway of the living room to talk to Darren and me, I realize what it is:  

Snow falling on the roof from the trees and the wind shaking the front patio.

See, I have my creepy old house moments too.

I am a point to tell my hubby. 

“Babe, if you think this house can be creepy with a bunch of noises, you should be here when it’s completely silent.”

He laughs at me, but he totally agrees. 

Ask him how it feels when you’re alone in the house and the power kicks back in, while you’re on the toilet. 

Yeah, he was just as freaked out as I was.

Rodents

We have rodents.

I shouldn't be surprised, but when you step on a dead mouse surprise is a mild reaction in most cases. To put more emphasis on this country development, I will say it again. Actually scream it.

WE HAVE RODENTS!

Ugh. My question is why did it manage to die in our bedroom? Yes, our bedroom. There is mouse poison in our basement, but this mouse is belly up in our bedroom, which is not in our basement. I have even a bigger question. HOW did it get to our bedroom?

The crazy thing is, I am no worried about mice running through our house. I am just concerned about where they die. It's to be expected. It's an old farm house that was built in the 1900s. It's bound to have an intricate labyrinth of mouse holes.

But I am losing sleep over the fact that I might walk in the room and find Darren gumming up a dead mouse.  It is understandable if you are shuddering, I am too.

Me, being a woman, left the mouse there and sent a text to my husband and my father. It kind of went like this.

Me: um …we have an issue. (accompanied with the picture below.)

Dad: Yes we agree! Is it dead?

Pause. I had to roll my eyes, then texted him back.

Me: Um…yes…it appears that way.

He didn’t reply back. But my mother did come and put more rat poison in the basement.

Devon did his manly duty and called me.

“It’s dead?”

I have to roll my eyes again. “Yes it’s dead and it will be waiting for you to dispose of it when you get home.”

“Where is it?”

“In the bedroom.”

“How did it get there?”

“Um..it walked. I don’t know.”  I know my sarcasm is unnecessary, but I didn’t get to ask it a million questions before it went to its heavenly maker.

I wish it ended there.

We also have raccoons in our grove. Or that’s what my dad tells me.

Two weeks ago I went out to burn garbage. Because it had been windier that crap the previous week, we had just placed the bag in the barrel and left it to burn for later. Well the raccoons had gotten to it; gotten in to it good. Diapers were ripped into; the back that had the leftover meat from grilling was completely annihilated.  Various wrappers had blown all throughout the trees

So I spent the afternoon picking up garbage.

Now, when I walk in our house I always wear slippers. Stepping on a small squishy rodent is not desired. I also, send a glare towards the burning barrel every morning before I go to work. That should keep the raccoon rodents away.

Corn Bales

For some reason these make me super happy. There are acres upon acres of these corn stalk bales in fields by our house.

Raccoon Killer

The most country thing happened to me today. I killed a raccoon.

It wasn’t any old raccoon killing either. In city terms it would probably be called vehicular homicide; country terms: instant road kill.

I, personally, am still in a state of shock. About a week after we moved my cousin claimed he killed a whole family of raccoons. I remember feeling embarrassed for him, until he claimed he swerved on purpose to hit them. He was proud. Me, I was pretty disgusted.

Now how am I to judge? I am a raccoon murder too. Not intentionally. It was five-thirty in the morning. They were huddled in the middle of the road and I swerved right to avoid them. One just decided to run right too. Hence it was instantly road kill.

Does this mean I am officially a country girl?

Ok, I should stop acting like am cement-beating city person. I did live on a farm for six years when I was younger, and I learned my way around hog barns while in college to make some extra cash. But it seems sometimes I forget the things I love most about the country.

Like the quietness, or wearing Carhartt jackets. Come on, is there anything more country that a Carhartt jacket?

Then there is standing in the yard at night and watching the lights of airplanes weave in between the stars. The enormity of the sky takes your breath away and makes you feel like you’re floating a sea of stars.

For the record though, I do not, enjoy being a raccoon murder. But I am enjoying being a country girl again.

The Good Country Wife

If my husband had known moving out to the country would cause me to cook more, we would have moved out here the day after we were married. Cindalicuous says “Just because she moves out the country for five days she thinks she knows about cooking.”  

Well that’s what women who live in the country should know about right? So I am going to make myself and expert on it.

My knowledge of cooking is amateur at best. In the year and few months that I’ve been married my husband has continually ask me, “When are you going to learn how to cook?” I like and self respecting woman, responded the same every time. “I DO KNOW HOW TO COOK!” This was followed by a doubtful look on his part.

Part the issue of both of these comments is one; I do know how to cook. Two, I don’t know how to cook a lot of ‘black’ foods. Collard greens, grits, ham hocks? The first time I truly knew what those foods tasted like was under my husband’s tutelage. The flips side of this; I have caught the hubby measuring the ingredients for Kraft macaroni and cheese. Who does that? Someone who had never made boxed macaroni and cheese before he met me. EVER. Shocking.

Here is where our culinary worlds collide. Me, I have the basic skills. Give me any recipe; I can follow it pretty well. Everything created is edible. Him, if it doesn’t have to do with meat and potatoes, with a few added veggies, he’s not cooking. He’s probably not eating either. Snacks are the only meal where meat is not included.  What a carnivore.

But there are amazing creations that come out of our differences. Like Italian salad with steak and spinach. Delicious. What about double dipped Smokehouse Maple Chicken strips? Yummy. 

Tonight’s dinner menu was apple and sage pork chops, honey acorn squash and apple dumplings. Impressive huh!? Cue the clapping.

If you saw how I went about cooking you wouldn’t be so impressed. My rolling pin was a can of Pam, I almost seared my foot while switching the pans for the dumplings, and EVERY counter was covered in cooking apparatus. I did take a moment to show the hubby a proper cooking clean-up routine.

Me:“Hey baby come look at this.” 

Him: “What?”

Me, while wiping down counters and loading the dish washer: “This is how it’s done, cleaning the kitchen while your food is finishing.”

Him: ‘Yeah. You’re a toolbag.” (Or something along those lines. Football was on so he didn’t pause long enough to see the beauty of the kitchen.)

That’s what I get for being the good country wife. Supper was splendid. Desert was scrumptious. He’ll thank me later.