I spent last week miserably ill, but Mr. H coaxed me out on Saturday with the promise that there would be many fat people at the supermarket. The things people put in their carts! I marvel at this on a normal day, but the day before Storm of the Century AND a playoff game? Unspeakable. We got into the spirit by running up and down the aisles grabbing things we didn’t need. Organic pizza bites! Twinkies! Crab dip!
In the midst of a fever, I must have agreed to let Mr. H get a new camera, because he came home with one later that day, all “Ma,canIkeepit,therewasarebate,pleaseplease.” Thus he was able to document Storm of the Century most handily. At this rate, each photo he took only cost us $43. Here are several.
Going outside in the winter is something I try not to do. I found myself costumed in a jacket from a short-lived stab at snowboarding years ago, with yoga pants tucked into a pair of asymmetrical Camper knee boots and oven mitts on my hands. I started shoveling, but then, as Melvin would say, “J’ai éprouvé un sentiment insupportable d’inutilité.” I gave up and crawled in through the trunk and backed out. The snow just stayed on top of the roof and hood, molded as if Gaudà himself shat it there. Then Mr. Plow came, and I went in for a drink.
Death from above. There is no reason to go outside.
Sunset, tower window. These are secret messages, saying that I should eat a Twinkie.
