To be or not to be (a snow day).

When I was young, my dad was a school district administrator, and one of his duties was to decide if we would have school or not on snow days. He would get a call from the bus garage at 5 am, and from across the hall I could hear his authoritative voice discussing with the bus garage boss whether the roads were clear enough to travel safely. Then, for a few painful, exhilarating moments, I would wait to see whether my mom was going to come across the hall to turn off my alarm or, or, or... or not. I got this tense feeling in my stomach, a tiny surge of adrenaline, as if something really great might happen any moment, or, or, or... or not. Like the feeling when you get when you buy a scratch ticket. Or when you're watching a really great movie and the girl might just find the guy at the salad bar after all. Or when the baby's eyes finally droop shut after you've been driving him around late at night.

The feeling of thrilling expectation versus the same-ole, same-ole. That's what it's like when you're selling and buying a house. Each and every time someone comes through with their chipper realtor, the kids and I pack up some yoghurt pretzels and milk and hop in the car to drive up and down Grant Creek Road, and that familiar exciting, nervous feeling grips my stomach. It makes me have to poop, to be honest, but a good kind of poop. The kind where you run in and yank down your pants, not having to fumble with belts and clasps and there's a recent copy of the Sunday funnies and a nice-smelling candle is burning somewhere. And after a modicum of straining, a nicely shaped log plops into the bowl, so perfectly rounded at the tip, that you can tell without looking that wiping will be superfluous, but you do it anyway because the potty paper is soft and tears from the roll easily after a slight tug. That's the kind of poop I'm talkin bout.

So I'm in the car with the quietly chewing kids and a friendly poo is tapping me on the shoulder, and after a 20-minute drive we're back home, checking out which doors were opened and which lights were turned on by the shoppers. And the feeling's not quite gone, but then I head to the can to satisfy my urge and there it turns ugly. The kids demand an audience for their grievances and the bathroom smells like a wet diaper has been removed and lost somewhere. Instead of Sunday funnies there's an old copy of Horticulture magazine and I've read the cactus story a thousand times, and my friendly log is refusing to separate itself from my sphincter, but instead of soft downy potty paper with which to wipe and smear the stubborn chafe, there are a stack of wooden napkins left by myself from the last time I peed and used up all the paper. And I wipe and wipe and wipe while the kids poke and prod and try to through Q-tips in the toilet. I wipe until my arse feels like tenderized strip steak. And then I know. There will be no selling of the house today. Today is not a snow day.