So the doorbell rings – and my two dogs immediately go berserk. Which means its my mother – she does it on purpose because she thinks its hilarious, she calls it the dog bell. One of these days I’m going to open the door and slap her.

But I digress. This time, I opened the door and stood there, dumbfounded and gawking.

Standing in front of me is a mountain of red Norwegian wool. And some fur on the top. All I could see was her nose.

HB: Mother of God, its Mrs. Clause. What the hell are you wearing?

She lumbers into the house. Two mittened hands reach up towards the fur and try to pull the hood back, but without fingers she just manages to flail the fur collar around while I watch in total horror at the state of my gene pool.

After a full five minutes of flailing, I hear a distant shriek – Help me!

I wrestle the hood off her head, and the static charge reaches epic proportions – her grey hair stands straight up off her head.

I contemplated the most recent dog bell incident – and the insanity that has ensued the last twelve times she’s rung my doorbell and I couldn’t help myself. I shuffled my slippers across the carpeted floor towards her, and reached out to touch the end of her little red nose.

*SNAP*

QB: You little shit, what did you do that for?

HB: You deserve it for that outfit, have I taught you nothing? What size is it??

QB: Its size Shut Up and Get Me Some Static Guard. This fur collar is generating some sort of electrical charge every time I put it on.

HB: Its God’s way of telling you its hideous and shouldn’t be worn.

QB: Do you like my muff?

HB: Mom, you need to never ever say that – and don’t Google it either.

Let me explain to you about the weather here in the Godforsaken Arctic Tundra. We have three temperatures – Almost Freezing, Freezing, and Freezing Your Ass Off. I find the older I get, the more it pisses me off that we live here – but never the less I do try to construct a tasteful look from Gore-Tex and polar fleece.

My mother however has taken a less fashionable route. I don’t care where the parka is made and by who, she looks like she’s wearing a sleeping bag, fur-trimmed.

QB: My new criteria for clothes. Its gotta be big. Its gotta be thick. Its gotta be long.

HB: Dear God, please tell me you’re still talking about polar fleece?

And so, the story ends – with the be-flanned red beast shuffling out the door, yelling over her shoulder…”The matching pack boots are on order!”

This is going to be a long winter folks.