In no particular order, I blame the Mayans, HAARP and the New World Order, Punxsutawney Phil, and Charlie Sheen for all this snow flying around. We’re getting into that treacherous Laura Ingalls Wilder territory, where the snow prevents the opening of doors, and we have to eat the horses. Or something. That all happened in those books, right? We make our own bullets, fight bears, and bide our time while not being selfish little girls.
As winter advances, I grow restive. No longer content to wallow in a puddle of my own adipose tissue, I marshal my last shreds of life force and prepare for spring. If I have to bite your head off while snowbound during the “Groundhog Day Massacre,” which has already started today, making it only fitting that we will repeat the whole process again tomorrow, so be it. My jaw will be limber and my teeth sharpened and all the more ready to tear into groundhog flesh.
I blew my annual chance for rage-free days by going to Florida when it was too cold and overwhelmed by washed up man-o-wars. We caught the last non-cancelled flight home just in time for more snow. All I have to show for that trip is a sunburnt part line. I also have a new prescription for a drug that may give me a fatal rash. Since I have made it my life’s work to try as many drugs as possible, I am trying to take that last bit in stride and instead hope it cures my fantasies of strangling passersby. Oh, not you. Maybe YOU.
Right now I am snowed in at home with Mr. H and the child, and we have to shout to hear each other because it turns out adding an industrial blower to your home makes it difficult to hear. The pipes decided to burst yesterday, and the ceiling rained iced tea and possibly blood. I choose to believe that the events of this entire winter to date are an analogue to that story about the wise man who tells the family to add a goat to their overcrowded hovel to induce harmony. When you remove the goat, or in my case, the snow and the industrial blower and the urge the strangle, my life will fall into balance for 36 minutes.
Goddamn that Charlie Sheen! When will he give it a rest so we can enjoy a colada in peace?