Category Archives for "weather"

This is not what I originally intended to blog about because a tsunami trumps anything I might have to say about sex in the stone age

I had a post ready to go in which I talked about, among other things, lousy customer service, my kids wanting to put me up for adoption and sex with the Flintstones but I woke up this morning to news of the tsunami in the Pacific and suddenly, getting busy in the stone age didn’t seem quite as riveting.

I fear it’s going to be another one of those days where I am glued to CNN and not just because Anderson Cooper might be wearing a hip waders while standing in an Asian sushi bar and acting all anchor-y.

My heart goes out to the people of Japan. The images I’m staring at are heartbreaking.

My thoughts and prayers go out to all those in cities that are sitting in the path of this devastation. Hawaii is expected to be hit in ten minutes and all I can think is OH MY GOD.

My beloved San Francisco is threatened. I hope my sister moves inland. Elaine, if you can hear me, RUN. And take the Golden Gate Bridge and Harry Mason with you.

Stay safe, everyone. I hope you’re reading this from higher ground.



I almost inadvertently had my way with a snowblower which is not as romantic as it sounds

As I type this, it’s a balmy 30° and the snow has melted sufficiently so that I can see pavement and partial grass. Actually, I can see these two surfaces quite easily as I happen to be staring down directly at them whenever I venture outside, courtesy of a hunchback brought on by the few thousand muscle spasms I acquired while shoveling out a poop patch for Oliver this past Sunday. I knew one day his bowels would be the death of me. Or, at the very least, the permanent maiming of me.

My hunchback made me take a muscle relaxant before I wrote this. If this post makes no sense and runs crooked off your screen midway, it’s because she’s a bossy, bitchy shrew and I wish she’d get the hell off my back already.

Now let’s talk about last Friday, shall we? The precursor to my transformation into Quasimodo with boobs.

Remember when Mother Nature got horny and paid Old Man Winter a booty call and they left their bastard spawn all over our driveway?

They got busy again last Friday and apparently, safe sex is not at the top of their agenda.

Stupid, prolific, nymphomaniac geezers.

There was easily two feet of snow covering our driveway last Friday. Not just any snow. Extraordinarily heavy, “heart attack” snow. For those of you who never heard of heart attack snow because you’re reading this while wearing sunglasses, shorts and tank tops, I HOPE YOU ARE BLINDED BY YOUR OWN SWEAT AND TRIP ON YOUR FLIP FLOPS AND BLEED OUT IN YOUR POOL. I shouted that last part so you could hear me above the humming of your central air. You’re welcome.

For the rest of us, heart attack snow is snow that contains so much moisture that it’s heavy enough so as to potentially give you a heart attack whilst shoveling it. You’d never know it just by looking at it though, because it’s deceptively pretty. All sparkly and glistening. Kind of like the flashy guy you brought back to your dorm room who sort of looked like a slim and trim Adam Lambert in the bar the night before but wound up looking exactly like an obese, Lady-GaGa-drag-queen wannabe the morning after, right around the time you flushed your beer goggles down the toilet along with a gallon of your own vomit.

Not that I would know, since I went to college twenty-five years ago. Now, if we’re talking George Michael and Freddie Mercury?

I still wouldn’t know. My point? DO AS I SAY, NOT AS I DO. Got that, Zoe?

Nate wasn’t due home until late that Friday which left Zoe, Helena and me snowbound. In our house. Trapped. Together. Friday happened to be the seventh day of February break from school which meant we had already spent the previous six days within close proximity of each other. Together. In our house. The same house that, thanks to the weather and an overabundance of estrogen and the impeccable timing of menses, had seemingly shrunk to the size of a linen closet.

By 11 a.m., I pretty much knew how the survivors of the 1972 crash of Flight 571 in the Andes mountains felt except that the girls and I didn’t play rugby and we had better fashion sense and three new Top Chef episodes on DirectTV and we did not cannibalize one another even though I had a ton of cream cheese in the fridge which makes everything, presumably even human flesh, taste better. Don’t you think? But nevertheless, we refrained. Unless you count Zoe and Helena biting each other’s faces off and me chewing their asses out every so often which doesn’t really count since no cream cheese was involved so nevermind.

After the eleventeenth round of How Many Nerves Can We Stand On Before Mom Chokes Us to Death With Our Own Intestines, I decided to take matters in my own hands and go all I AM WOMAN, HEAR ME ROAR on the snow to secure our freedom on my own.

I did this by calling Nate and demanding that he come home immediately and snow blow the driveway. He said no. I insisted, declaring that we were merely one or two more rounds of SHUT UP! NO, YOU SHUT! I’M TELLING MOM! GO HEAD, BABY! I’M NOT A BABY! NO, YOU’RE A BRAT! away from an incident and how was the coroner supposed to get up our driveway?

He declined, saying something about his job and paying the mortgage and putting food on the table, blah blah freaking blah. I told him that the snow was too heavy to shovel and I was *this* close to using the snow blower all by myself and unlike last time, he wasn’t there to spray paint blue grid lines on the driveway and give me coordinates and follow me around with a protractor so he had better have his EpiPen handy because hello? ASYMMETRY WAS IMMINENT.

He told me he was late for a meeting, to be careful and most importantly, don’t pound the auger because it would likely break the whole snowblower. And then he hung up before I could ask him if pounding the auger was code for masturbation and why in the world would I engage in that? All by myself? And how in the world would it break a snowblower?

Just to be safe, I took Zoe out to the garage with me so that I wouldn’t be alone and vulnerable to any spontaneous and involuntary pounding of an auger and then we both stared at the snowblower, trying to figure out how to use it and at one point, I got all excited because we found a lever with silhouettes of a bunny and a turtle on either side of it and I was all Oh my God, we have Aesop’s snowblower. It was probably only a minute or so later when I accidentally discovered that pounding the auger was not, in fact, code for self-gratification but rather, an apt description for exactly what I did between the phrases “Hey! What happens when I touch this thing?” and “Shit Shit Shit on a Stick,” the latter of which was accompanied by a nut, bolt and coil springing loose and thus, the breaking of the whole snowblower. Then I remembered what Nate had said about masturbation pounding the auger and had one of those light bulb moments that Oprah is always blabbing on about and honestly? They’re overrated.

By the way, I didn’t so much pound on the auger as I did barely touch it so in my defense, it’s Nate’s fault.

Zoe and I wound up shoveling half the driveway and I was probably two shovel-fulls away from a massive coronary before my neighbor came home and offered to snow blow the remainder for us and Zoe was all Oh my God, thank you!

But I was all Don’t throw fish at me!

And my neighbor was all Uh, what?

And I was all You know! That whole “I’m too dumb to go fishing so if you buy me dinner, I’ll stay stupid forever but if you teach me how to catch gross, slimy creatures that swim in their own poop, we won’t have to cannibalize each other with cream cheese” thing.


So I told her to get her ass inside because using such profane language in front of Aesop’s dead snowblower was tantamount to goddamn blasphemy and seeing as how I was already halfway up shit’s creek already with that whole masturbation auger pounding mistaken identity thing, I didn’t have a lot of wiggle room here and for shit’s sake, what the hell would Jesus say, blasphemer?

My neighbor was nice enough to teach me how to use his snowblower which kind of looked like a tiny red Mazda Miata with an enormous penis perched on its roof and kudos to him for doing so because I’ll be the first to admit that I’d have thought twice about teaching someone who was obviously having a psychotic break and who was babbling on and on about mistaken masturbation and cannibalizing dairy products, how to operate a piece of machinery that looked like a ginormous turbine sex toy with rotating fangs on its crotch.

It took me thirty minutes to snow blow our driveway and sidewalk and then the girls and I were free to go wherever we chose and I chose to go directly to the couch because my entire upper body was tingling and felt like it had been zapped by a taser programmed to the STUN A RUNAWAY BUFFALO mode.

Today, the snow is almost gone. And yet here my body sits, still looking like a wobbly question mark.

There’s a moral in here somewhere, probably about patience but I bet you could stick other lessons in there and it would still make sense, like practicing safe geriatric sex and not having your way with machinery from 600 B.C., and finding new uses for cream cheese and not blogging while under the influence of a muscle relaxant.

Somebody tell Aesop to boot up his laptop.



The last twenty-four hours

Shoveled snow.


Wished I lived in Hawaii.

Wished I lived in California.

Wished I lived in Fiji.

Wished I lived someplace that had lots of i’s and no snow.

Shoveled more snow.

Took off snow soaked jeans and sweat soaked underwear in the powder room before realizing I had forgotten clean pairs of each on the kitchen island.

Swore some more.

Yelled for Zoe or Helena to throw me the clean pairs.

Remembered they were both at school.

Wished I homeschooled.

Came back to my senses.

Said a prayer, ran out of the powder room commando.

Grabbed the clean pairs off the island.

Shocked, blinded and traumatized the UPS guy standing at the front door, ringing a broken doorbell.

Swore lots.

Made a mental note to buy the UPS guy some eye bleach for Christmas.

Continued shoveling snow.

Went against everything I believe in and bought Oliver a little wool sweater but only because I thought he’d be more apt to potty outside if he wasn’t shivering.

Thought wrong.

Stood outside and froze while begging Oliver to potty in the snow.




Yelled I MEANT OUTSIDE, NOT INSIDE, NUMNUTS! Also too many times to count.

Made up new swear words.


Went Christmas shopping.

Returned 75% of everything I bought.

Wrapped Uncle Pat’s gift and placed it under the tree.

Shoveled again.

Found Uncle Pat’s gift in the middle of the floor.


Re-wrapped Uncle Pat’s gift and placed it under the tree.

Shoveled and swore.

Found Uncle Pat’s gift on the stairs.


Re-wrapped Uncle Pat’s gift and placed it under the tree.

Swore my head off.

Shoveled my guts out.

Found Uncle Pat’s gift in Ollie’s mouth.

Put all wrapped gifts in the basement.

Put Ollie in his crate.

Gathered up my guts, found my head and took them all with me to Home Depot.

Bought a new shovel. And eye bleach.




I think Mother Nature is cheating on Father Time with Old Man Winter

Know what happens when Father Time decides he’d like to pass another millennium or two by immersing himself in a midlife crisis? So he spends his days popping Viagra and chasing that tooth fairy hussy around, leaving Mother Nature to tend to the same old same old boring hurricanes, tornadoes and floods?

I’ll tell you what happens. Mother Nature decides she’ll have a midlife crisis of her own and pays Old Man Winter a booty call.

And I wind up shoveling a few dozen tons of their illegitimate spawn off my driveway.

Nate is out of town which means I’m grumpy and not just because I miss him but because I have shoveled this stuff no less than 378 times in the past week. My right arm now hangs two feet longer than my left and I swear to God, if I stopped shaving for a day, the entire right half of my body could pass for a short, grumpy, premenopausal King Kong.

We do own a snow blower. It’s big and orange and evil. Nate once tried to teach me how to use it the right way because apparently, I was using it the wrong way. Using it the wrong way is defined as letting it yank me around like a paddle ball so that the driveway, part of the road and a hefty chunk of the lawn wind up looking like a ransom note carved out of the frozen tundra by a bipolar serial killer.

However, doing it the right way wasn’t very much fun either and that’s because having a behemoth of machinery rip my tendons from my bones while my husband stands in the middle of the driveway shouting out instructions like NOW TURN NORTH 90 DEGREES. NOW TURN SOUTH 90 DEGREES. NEGATIVE! THAT’S NINETY-TWO DEGREES! DROP DOWN AND GIVE ME TWENTY! AND THEN GET THE HELL OUT OF OUR NEIGHBOR’S BUSHES is not my idea of fun.

We don’t talk much about that time anymore, except to refer to it as the time when Mommy was sad and the driveway was confused.

It’s only December 8 and I am so over winter already which is really depressing, considering that winter doesn’t even officially start until December 21.

And I know that if it were 90°, I’d be bitching about the heat and humidity and boob sweat but right now I’m making up new swear words to describe the snowplow that just dumped a foot of packed snow at the end of my driveway.

The next time Mother Nature gets horny between December and March, I’d have paid big bucks to ensure that the Heat Miser is bumped up to #1 on her speed dial but thanks to that damn year without a Santa Claus, there’s that whole incest thing so instead, I’d settle for someone pushing Mother Nature head first into menopause and introducing her to a four month long hot flash.