Crap. The weather is finally warming up. This is really upsetting.
I know what you’re thinking.
And no, I’m not being sarcastic here. I’m perfectly serious.
Why do I not want warmer weather and chirping birds and happier neighbors and green grass to sprout? It’s not because I love the cold. Or the snow.
I don’t ski. I don’t even sled. I don’t build more than one snowman a year, if that.
Before you go judging me, by the way, I have Raynaud’s disease, a condition where my fingers go painfully numb when they’re exposed to cold temperatures thanks to a lovely auto immune thing or frost bite as a kid – don’t know which. Either way, I get to blame my parents. Basically, I can’t feel my digits after the burning pain throbbing in them subsides. And they turn white. They look like thick, knobby icicles poking rigidly off my palm in all directions. Well, five directions.
(On the plus side, my hands make excellent ice packs for feverish children’s foreheads. Professional sports teams should really capitalize on people like myself with this condition. My hands perform much better than any ice pack. They can wrap right around tight shins and pulled hammies, no problem, and they remain ice cold for hours. School nurses ought to hire me, too. I can cool and cure two sick kids at a time while using my legs and feet to kick out the phony baloney ones and my mouth to spread fun school gossip.)
Anyway, even with the corpse fingers, I really don’t want our freezing cold, bitter arctic tundra, not-leaving-the-house-for-days of a winter to end.
The reason? It’s a good one.
The worst scent to have ever assaulted a human’s nostrils comes barreling out whenever a toasty ray of sunshine projects through my rear window.
Moe puked in the back of my car two years ago and it still reeks whenever the sun hits it just right, OK? The wretched scent of dog barf overwhelms my car when it’s warm outside. It’s heinous. No amount of Febreze, baking soda or freshy-fresh-smelling, miracle-promising spray can even begin to erase that scent. Or the memory of that scent, should the scent ever be evicted, that is. It will still be with me forever, haunting me on summer days. It’s a part of me now.
I’ve learned that, in general, when it comes to cleaning, whether it’s your house or even your car (again, thanks, Moe) you can scrub and vacuum and mop and dust and squirt and wipe and <cleaning verb>. Well guess what? You’re only as clean as your dirtiest member. Ours is Moe (clearly). The hairiest, smelliest, slobberiest, jowl-slime-flinging-iest beast of an English bully. Try keeping up with his filth. You can’t. I can’t. Even he can’t. He tries licking himself clean and gives up a quarter of the way through, defeatedly grunting and passing back out for his eighth nap of the day.
Harummpphhh. * Fat dog body collapsing back onto my pillow, a gnarly cloud of hairs catapulted into the air and raining back down on him.
You read that correctly. My pillow.
Moe curls up for his naps during the day where I put my face at night. As a direct result, every day I wake up resembling that sucker who turned into Benji. Or Teen Wolf. Wolfette. It’s not just a five o’clock shadow of dog fur – it’s a full coverage fu manchu. Sometimes I look in the mirror and think wow, my eyelashes are SO lush! Then I realize it’s just dog hairs interwoven with my real ones. Doesn’t matter, I can still coat those puppies (pun not intended?) with a thick layer of mascara and make women everywhere jealous of my lashes. Yeah, they’re not real, OK?!
You got it, flaunt it. Even if “it” is technically dog butt.
Anyway, back to the point.
Just keep me and my stink mobile in mind this weekend, my northeastern friends, when you’re happily out and about enjoying the more pleasant temperatures and the sun is gently warming your back and caressing your cheek. That same sun is doing something truly abhorrent and sinister in my vehicle. A chemistry project gone wrong.
Lastly. If you want to order a pair of dog-lash falsies from me for your next special event, let me know. Moe is molting this time of year so there’s no shortage of supplies.