Ice Ice Baby

Whenever I think of icicles, I think of freezing unbearable temperatures, those awful scrapers for windshields, and a variety of ‘How cold does something truly have to be in order for your tongue to get stuck on it?’ scenarios. But after that, I think: pretty. Icicles are quite beautiful, honestly. A captured piece of nature and science, each authentic and organic within it’s environment.

These are pretty little gems, right? 

They can be delicate and shatter easily, or they are thick and as strong as, well, solid ice. They can represent the fragility and beauty of the winter season, or at least provide for a good photo op. I've also always associated icicles with the color white. All that I have seen are either white, or transparent, or a combination of those two. Sometimes if you look close enough you might see some dirt specks, but probably not. As the visual parade of icicle photos makes the rounds on Instagram and Facebook, I am further convinced of this as being the normal way of frozen water.

Only….this year….at my house…they are…not. Where I live you see, we have an assortment of decently sized icicles framing our outer borders that are the opposite of white and pretty and sparkly. They are, how shall we say, brown. Yes, brown. Our freaking icicles are gross and jaundiced, and big. And a lot. They hang directly below a blanket of pristine white snow, contrasting in a way that either make you want to laugh or cry, or laugh so hard you cry, or if you live here, just mainly cry.

There is no way to hide this, mind you. Every house on our street glitters with their pretty icicles, and sandwiched between them all is us. The brown sheep of sorts. Complete with a soundtrack of ‘One of these things just doesn't belong herrrreeee…’ playing in the background. We have become the smelly kid of houses! I have no idea why this has happened. Why the icicle gods have forsaken us, leaving a trail of rejected poo-stained icicles in it’s place. Ridiculous.

We are not a dirty house. Now, while we may not be of the June Cleaver category, we can maintain an appropriate level of cleanliness and charm. Leaves get raked, dishes get washed, and sidewalks get shoveled. We get as much rain as the houses next to us, our roof tiles are blue, and there is no reasonable explanation of why my home must suffer this way.

I confided to a colleague earlier today, describing how they looked. She suggested that maybe the roof was just dirty or something. Not a big deal. Then she came over and saw them. And burst out laughing. Laughing because “Oh my god, they really are BROWN! I thought they were just tinted or something but no! Those are so BROWN!” (I really don’t exaggerate half as much as people think I do. Most of my life is so weird, I never have the need to.)

At this point, I just don’t know what to do about it. Am I supposed to get a stick and try and knock the impostors off? We would then be the house with NO icicles (also weird but way less gross). Then maybe I could bury the frozen corpses in the backyard, and leave the graves unmarked and full of shame? This is a bad plan. First of all, IF there IS an icicle god, AND if he/she IS angry with us, I’m sure my destructive tendencies will not help our plight. Also, one might hit me in the head, and since it’s made of some vile blend of scummy water and who knows what else, I could get violently ill and die. So yeah, bad plan.

I could paint them. I could tape pictures of pretty NORMAL icicles on top of them. I could string clean ice cubes together and hang those up, outnumbering the gross ones. OR I could just hide in my house. I could use a disguise when entering and exiting, shielding my identity from being associated with such an unbecoming sight. Another option would be to write all about it and post pictures to prove it on my blog. Yeah, I think I’ll just do that. 

Oh. My. Lord. What is WRONG with this?