I called the trash company this morning. The conversation went like this:

Me (hopefully): So, you won't be coming today, right?
Employee (cheerfully): Oh no, ma'am, we're running on schedule.
Me: You know that means I have to drag out my trash? And it's recycle day and I have yet to invest in the big rolling bin, figuring I could use the exercise carrying multiple crates to the curb?
Employee: Sorry about that.

That's the trouble with people who are dedicated to duty. They make the rest of us look bad. I agree with my garage door today; it's too cold to work.

All my household objects (and presumably the entire snowy universe) are with me on this. My clog sank and disappeared somewhere mid-driveway, choosing hibernation until a deep thaw or becoming leather roadkill, whichever comes first. The trash can determined it had gone far enough without sled runners, preferring to lie down and rest unless I lifted it like that super-sized Indonesian baby with a stinky, super-sized diaper.

I just got back from Mexico, where the very threat of Tropical Storm Patricia brought almost everything to a screeching halt. For the most part, she passed by ruffling the water and dropping a few tears of regret for not living up to expectations.

Unfortunately, the resort owners' children decided to put out their fishing boats that morning, banking on Patricia's retreat. Their father Martin, understanding Nature's petulant demand for complete inactivity whether or not she actually delivered, advised against it. Patricia decided to kick up her heels during the beachside palapa bar's happy hour (at least it was for me), scheduled when the boats returned. One of the passengers disembarking was an 80-year-old man, and it was not a happy sight seeing six people trying to match the rolling boat to the half-submerged dock long enough for him to span the distance.

After paying customers were safely ashore, the boat owners decided to take no more chances, attempting to bring both the boats and dock out of the water. In the process, Patricia pitched one boat into the trailer's railing, breaking things on both ends.

The next morning Marisol, one of the children who unadvisedly opted for activity, shared coffee with us as we pored over Eric's (a white-walrus-mustachioed gringo locally referred to as The Mayor) latest Tropical Storm report.

"Dad was mad," she said. "Even if the storm wasn't bad, he said it was better to wait, to not go out. You know, he didn't care about the damage to the boat or the trailer. He said, what if someone got hurt?" She looked out at the sea. "We learned our lesson."

My shoe beneath the snow agrees.