Attempting

Those of you lucky enough to have met me (or created me like my mom did) know I’m absolutely adorable (read: I act like I’m 5 and play it off in a positive light by describing it as adorable, because, let’s face it, I have no life skills). So it should come as no surprise to the few, the proud, the usually gay who befriend me, that yesterday I looked out my boyfriend’s kitchen window into the snowy unshovely wonderland that had taken over his backyard and proceeded to scream “I WANT TO BUILD A SNOWMAN” at the man lucky enough to be sleeping with the only five year old in North America that is legally able to consent to sex.

This was at around 9:45 in the morning. Phil, the aformentioned man (who is definitely probably not a pedophile), insisted breakfast come first because apparently filling me with protein and coffee would calm me down. He made me eggs. Cooked in bacon grease. It was awesome. Then he let me drink a 500mL chocolate milk and I spent the next hour whining about how my tummy hurt. It was not awesome.

Then it was time to go play outside! Now, I should mention that Phil is 25 and has his shit together. Like, ridiculously so. Like owns a house and wears matching socks to work together. Has a whisk specifically for making scrambled eggs. Yeah. Just for eggs. So you’d think given his togetherness at life and my desperation to go out and form snow into some kind of lumpy fat person with a weird carrot nose that we’d be able to get out of the house at play in the snow rather quickly. No. It took about two hours, from my falling over in an attempt to change leggings and Phil looking for his “awesome snow pants” which were never found (hint: I burned them because dating guys who own snowpants is social suicide [unless they are megarich Swedish ski instructors]).

Given enough time, two people can accomplish anything, so with 120 minutes under our belt (that’s right, I can add, suck on that), Phil and I were dressed to impress (or to stand outside in the snow for 20 minutes before I invariably decided I was bored). We trodded outside and proceeded to test the snow. Short answer: not packing snow. No snow man. Being the adults that we are, we did not decide to throw ice balls at the giant icicles on this roof until they cracked off and once that was over we certainly did not end up just throwing loose snow at each other for four straight minutes until Phil’s parents called from Phoenix.

Though, Phil, being the giant man-child that he is, did proceed to give me a “snow bath” after returning from his phone call which then caused me to frantically shove snow down the back of his shirt while my butt got all wet because I was still sitting in the snowbank he had pushed me into. I’m not sure if Phil was just cold and miserable or if he realized I probably would sit in the snow bank digging a snow cave until I froze to death, but he decided to call of the Snow Man Attempt of 2010. We spent the rest of the afternoon with him attempting to teach me how to play poker “like a shark” and me insisting I could go to the casino, blink a lot and act lost and someone would just give me money.

And thus, I still have yet to cross “Make a Snowman” off of my list.

Lame.