My wife and I had expected to laze around the house with our daughter, but, as with most things, it didn't go as planned. Somehow, the garage stand-up freezer wasn't closed and we woke up to a wet mess on the floor of the garage. By the time Tracy had unloaded the freezer into coolers and the other two refrigerators, I was elbow deep in play time. Shea was in a fantastic mood, running, playing, giving unsolicited kisses.
Tracy defrosted the freezer, breaking out pieces of ice and dumping them in the backyard to melt. She was thorough as always, making sure that any trace of frost was eradicated. She boiled kettle after kettle of hot water, making sure to rinse all of the walls, wiping down any drips of chicken blood, marinara sauce, or soup. She wore a grey sweatshirt that was wet to the elbows, fleece pants and her woolly, rubber-soled slippers. Her hair fell about her face in thin wisps, wet at the temples where she sweat.
Feeling like I needed to contribute, after Shea was tucked into bed, I unloaded the furnace filters and took them to the back patio to clean them. Armed with a bottle of Simple Green, I sprayed down the filters, hosed them off in the grass, and shook them as dry as I could. By the time I was done, Tracy was ready to reload the freezer and I passed her its contents by category: beef, pork, chicken, shrimp, fish, turkey, duck, rabbit, and lamb. When she was done stacking its contents, the fridge looked like a compartmentalized office space, cubicles full of frozen flesh.
We came inside, warmed ourselves, dined on bowls of Top Ramen, and settled in to watch "Juno." While the morning wasn't exactly as we expected, it's turned into an afternoon where our sloth feels justified, where we feel we've accomplished something, and now can collect our just desserts. Speaking of...there's Snickers in the fridge.
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