Poor Frost :(

Yesterday Dave took Anna skiing and poor Nora Jane had to stay behind with mama, the non-skier.  Don't feel too bad for her though, her turn is coming tomorrow.  So we had a mommy/daughter day.  We went for coffee (of course), saw "Tangled," which I fully expect to see as a musical in a few years. I LOVED this movie!  And we attempted to assemble a gingerbread house,  but the icing simply WOULD NOT hold the darn thing together!  So, despite our best efforts, we were left with a saggy, lopsided mess that The Gingerbread Man himself would surely run away from.  And finally, to top off her day of craftiness (and so I could start dinner) Nora created Frost the Snowman, not to be confused with "that other guy."

Working only with her imagination and a box of crayons, (she absolutely refused any other tools...no glitter, no markers, no colored pencils, a complete and utter minimalist...very unlike her) she turned an ordinary sheet of white freezer paper into a smiling snowy work of art.  (I'm so easily impressed by my childrens' creations)  Now Frost may not come across as much to the average onlooker, but he is something special to us.  His body matches those of his snow-made counterparts seen waving at passers-by on  any snow-covered yard in town.  Irregularly shaped, uneven, leaning just a bit to the right.  And his black "silk" hat is adorned with festive holly and berries.  His triangular orange nose is pointing just enough to the side to allow his admirers to amaze in it's lifelike carrotishness.   His pink and blue pom-pom buttons were glued down his middle section in a perfectly haphazard fashion (after hanging him on the wall so that the glue ran like a river down the  front of his belly).  And, finally, his TINY BOW-LEGGED FEET (much too small to support the weight of his body) were added, as an afterthought--just for artistic flair--because, "Mom, he's a snowman, of course he doesn't NEED feet!

Well Nora was SO proud of her creation that she named her piece and promptly hung him on the wall in the hallway.  That special place where she hangs everything BIG.

NJ with her winter masterpiece "Frost"
In the basement his new home 

And, like always, it immediately began to fall to the floor.  So we had to go through the usual process of "trying again."  Adding more tape, and then adding more tape.  Pounding the tape to the wall  with our fists for extra security. Holding the tape to the count of ten, then twenty.  And like always, it just kept falling.  I don't know why I don't just break down and buy some kind of fun tack glue or something.  I guess it's because I have tape!  Sticky Tape!  And Sticky tape is supposed to stick!  Right!  Finally, we gave up.  We moved on to dinner and left Frost lying on the floor until later, when I'd "take care of him properly"--as promised.  

But I was tired.  

So today arrives and I am sitting at the computer in the kitchen blogging away when I hear that all-too familiar sound.  The sound of spray.  The sound of something I love getting ruined.  And I know, even before I  turn my head and prepare to leap from my seat, that Frost, Poor Frost, has been victimized, suffering the gravest humiliation known to snow people worldwide.  His whiteness, that had been perfect until just seconds ago, is now tainted.  Disgraced, he's lying on the floor, a crumpled heap of paper and embarrassment.

If I wad him up and throw him into the recycle bin, Nora will surely notice his absence.  She always does.  Then I have to come up with a lie (a white lie, mind you) to help ease her  pain and  move on.  But it's too soon for that yet.  He's barely taken up residence.  Usually, I have to wait at least several weeks before trying to get rid of something BIG.  Oh those little things are easy.  They "get lost," or "fall into the recycling." But not Frost.  Not yet.  Not even Nora would believe that.  Oh, if only he'd stayed where we put him in the first place.  If only I had tried the "packing tape" as promised.  If only.  If only... But no.  I committed a major mother mistake:  I FORGOT.

So I grabbed the culprit,  another of the four-leggeds that reside at the Larson compound, and released him into the wild where he will stay as long as I can ignore the whiny meowing and scratching at the back door as he pleads to gain re-entry.  It's a song and dance we have been performing together since we moved into this house four years ago.  Before that he was just Cooper, the sweet one of two tabby-cats given to me by my sweet animal-loving husband almost fourteen years ago as an anniversary gift.  Now he is Cooper "The Whizard of Odd."  The cat who will pee on anything and for no apparent reason other than he is simply too lazy to walk his chubby little self to the door and stare at it politely, or howl at the doorknob incessantly as his brother Mickey does, until someone notices him and lets him out.  Now I know what you're thinking.  Why don't we have a litter box?  Believe me, been there done that.  And not just any old litter box.  We've tried them all!  Plain ones,  fancy ones.  Boxes with roofs and boxes with doors. And we've tried all manner of kitty litter and STILL he will do his business wherever the urge hits.  And, yes, we put up with him.  What else can we do?  He's one of us.  

You Know Who...
(Apparently, not in the mood for picture taking)

As for Frost?  Well, he has been washed, dried, sanitized heavily and is drying in the hallway preparing for his next move:  to the basement.  It's colder there.  He'll be happier.

Stay tuned...