Cold Mountain meets the Donner Party, Resolution #4

Friday, January 8, 2010
The wagon train has parked. We've picked up the last of the pioneers from school and brought them West to the homestead. We will camp here for the weekend. The temperature is reading at -10, but we know with the accursed wind it is colder. Pizza has been ordered. Netflix has arrived. We will camp here until Monday.

Saturday, January 9, 2010
Dawn broke over the horizon, but none of us saw it. We just assume it happened, because by 10 a.m. it was somewhat sunny. While we were loath to get out from under the blankets, George the Superpet was barking to go outside for his morning constitutional. The co-leader of our expedition, Current Husband, yelled from the bed, "SOMEONE LET THE DOG OUT!" and the other members of our party yelled, "WHAT?!" and he yelled louder, "SOMEONE LET THE DOG OUT!" and they replied "HUH? We're not dug out?" and I said, "F@(*&%!!" and stomped out of the room to release the hound.

The last of the Toaster Strudel was eaten by the children while they made the coffee (Important Parenting Lesson: Teach the children early how to make coffee. You'll thank me later). Frozen breakfast pastries were gone, and coffee beans were getting dangerously low. The leftover pizza was eaten for lunch, and chips and salsa were getting below safe levels. The children couldn't seem to stop eating - microwave popcorn, chips, cereal, apples, bananas, it was as though a plague of pre-menstrual mothers was ravaging our kitchen cabinets. George the Superpet kept begging to go outside, and it was discovered that he was going out to eat snow because no one had filled his water bowl in the morning. Accusations were made. Fingers were pointed. The tension was mounting. Could we make it to Monday?

We stayed up late playing Scrabble, with the winner getting the last brownie. I had a slow start with a plethora of vowels, but came in with the Z and the Q to win that brownie by a mere 5 points. CH flipped the board in the air and stomped out of the room, cursing, while I ate the brownie in front of him and yelled "QUIZ triple word score, SUCKA!" (Okay, none of that actually happened, but I did win with the Q and the Z. For the record.)

Staples are starting to run low, and it is too cold to go to the general store. Members of the party have started to fight amongst themselves over who will clean the dishes and let the George the Superpet outside. We have decided against getting George the Superpet groomed this month so he can keep his shaggy coat as protection against the cold. When he is curled up in his chair he is starting to look like a Rack of Lamb.

Sunday, January 10, 2010.
The party woke this morning sometime before 10, but no one would get out of bed. George the Superpet taught himself how to use the indoor plumbing facilities. There was a subtle shift in the family dynamic. Without frozen pastry or sugar-coated cereal, I resorted to cutting up refrigerator biscuits and drowning them in sugar, butter, cinnamon and brown sugar and baking the hell out of it in a Bundt pan. I think I shall call it Monkey Bread. We gave the children the last of the orange juice so they could tell their teachers on Monday they had something of nutritional value.

Lunchtime came thirty minutes later. Our camp is out of the staples: Pizza, frozen microwavable items, sugary snacks, salty snacks, and pure sugar. People are fighting over seating areas on the radiators. Blankets are at a premium. Children are bored. I fix chicken wings, and now we are out of unfrozen poultry. Oldest Daughter is a vegetarian, so we give her celery and a peanut butter sandwich.

Dinner. We have to move on to pasta and meatballs. Our bodies are starting to show the symptoms of sugar withdrawal: irritability, chronic fatigue, rifling through the cabinets, and looking for leftover Christmas stocking candy. No one wants to actually go through the grueling process of putting on clothes and outerwear and driving to the general store. The house goes quiet. Eyes are shifting wildly from one party member to another.

Current Husband and Oldest Daughter look sour. Middle Son is being a little salty. Youngest Daughter is looking particularly sweet. Oh. So. Sweet.


RESOLUTION #4: Do not eat the children, no matter how sweet they appear.

Spring cannot come soon enough to the Heartland.