New Year's Freeze

New Year's Eve is probably the most over-hyped holiday we celebrate. Rushing from one party to the next, drinking bad sparkling wine while avoiding sloshing glasses threatening your outfit, crushing rooms full of sweaty strangers shouting resolutions for the next year which they will promptly break the next day. It's an exhausting night that usually has only a thin veneer of glamour left after the clock strikes twelve.

However, we are developing a new New Year's tradition. A dear friend of mine currently living in the Northwest has a darling island cabin in a lake near Canada. It is remote, secluded, and incredibly peaceful. It is also a two mile kayak or ski to get there from shore, depending on the season. In the summer, it's a delightful trip across cool glassy waters. In the winter, it can be a peaceful ski across expanses of white ice and snow. It can also be a bitter ski with howling winds, cracking ice, and dangerous conditions. My favorite New Year's was spent skiing across the lake, building a roaring fire in the cabin, making and eating a delicious meal, taking a sauna, and drinking champagne.

So when C. called and said, "Hey, I think I can fly in for three days. Do you want to do New Year's at the cabin?" it was the easiest yes I have said in awhile. Bear in mind that the weather forecast for the weekend was a balmy -17 F.

Groceries were bought, skis were borrowed, and we were set. I picked up C. from the airport and DH from his work. We got a slightly later start to the day than planned, so it was decidedly dark by the time we got to the lake. Not a problem. I've skied across this lake in the dark before. It was also -27 F without windchill. Slightly more of a problem seeing how I am a total wimp when it comes to the cold.

Three pairs of pants. Four shirts. Two pairs of gloves and a pair of mittens. Long underwear. Two hats. One scarf. Three pairs of socks. I was ready.

Fifteen minutes and about 1/2 of mile later, I was so not ready. Did I mention that it was FREEZING? Or that there was no wind block since we were skiing across a lake? Or that we had brilliantly decided to bring the dog with us, but the boots we picked up at Cabelas for her were too large, fell off, and filled with snow? Or that she was now refusing to walk because her paws were freezing and she was shaking? Or that we had to pull a sled across the lake with all of our supplies on it? Or that the lake was apparently only partially frozen so that every few steps you broke through the top layer of ice to water underneath which promptly froze when you pulled your ski out of the water? Or that this quickly built up to two inches of ice on the bottom of your skis? Or that it is difficult to ski with two inches of ice on the bottom of your skis?

I was pretty sure I was going to die.

However, I was not going to let anyone else know this. I refused to be the weeny who quit halfway across the lake. When my friend turned and asked if I was okay, I said, "Sure, keep going." At this point DH and I were taking turns carrying the dog inside our coats to help keep her warm. Thank goodness she's small for her breed.

We had made it about a mile and a half across when my fingers and toes stopped hurting. This was a big problem. For all you Southerners, pain is a good thing when you are cold. When the pain goes away, you have to start worrying more about frostbite. It's significantly harder to be a surgeon when you have no finger tips. I stopped to put in another set of hand warmers and check the color of my fingers. Still red, not black.

C. turned and started yelling at me. "We cannot stop again. You will die. Do you understand me? People die when it is this cold. YOU WILL DIE."

It is not good when someone else tells you what you have secretly been thinking for the past mile, particularly when it concerns your imminent demise. We pushed on. In my mind, I cursed her father for picking the island that was farthest away from shore. Remote is fine and dandy in the summer, but in the winter is a whole different story. We finally made it to the cabin, almost 2 hours after we started. Fire was built, cocoa was drunk, and heaters were lit. We found out the next day that the temperature got down to -40 F that night.

It was a heck of a start to the weekend.

The Short-Sheeter

My hotel bed is short. Not overly short, but I have to sleep with my head against the headboard so that my toes don't hang off. I don't personally consider this a big deal, especially since my poor husband's feet hang off of practically every bed in which he has slept.

However, I do take exception to the fact that my hotel cleaning woman is short sheeting my short bed. It's kicking me when I'm down, adding insult to injury, rubbing salt in a wound, and all those other cliches.

My first night in the hotel, I pulled back the coverlet, slid my legs into bed, and couldn't straighten my knees. I couldn't find the light switch by my bed, and refused to get out of bed to walk across the room to turn on the overhead light because I was cold. I remained calm for about two seconds, then started furiously kicking at whatever was holding back my legs. It gave way. My feet weren't covered, but I was stretched out, so I drifted off to sleep.

The next morning my sheets were snarled around me. I noted that the sheet AND comforter in the other bed were folded in half then tucked snugly under the mattress. Odd. I made my bed and headed out for my day.

Later that day the cleaning woman remade my bed - linens folded in half and tucked under the mattress. I started tugging on them, but she had nail gunned these puppies down. I puuullllllled and fell back against the wall, a corner of the coverlet clutched in my hand. Not really having a temper myself, I serenely grabbed the bottom edge of the mattress and dumped the whole thing over. The sheets came out. I remade the bed.

I found the lady in the hallway. I explained in English and sign language that I do not want her to make my bed. I will do it myself. She agreed. She remade my bed.

We have had this conversation three times now. She continues to short sheet me. Yesterday I put my suitcase and loose bobby pins and papers on top of the bed after I made it. I came back from the hospital, and she had carefully removed everything, stacked it neatly on the ground, and short sheeted my bed.

She put a carmel on my pillow.

I admire her determination. Today I am hiding the sheets.