My favorite voicemail, which I just can’t bring myself to delete, is from my mom. There’s no greeting, no introduction, no pleasantries, just one sentence: “Just wanted to tell you it’s fucking snowing here.”
Sing it, sistah.
Someone please tell me that it’s not really still snowing. Tell me that all the white shit in the sky is just the already fallen snow blowing around. Also, someone please remove all the sharp pointy things from my apartment so nobody gets hurt. While you’re at it, you might as well vacuum, too.
I know you guys are with me on this. How do I know? Here’s just a few of the site’s more popular searches from the past 48 hours:
- fucking snow
- how much fuckin snow are we going to get thursday?
- i hate the snow lovers
- +vibrator +bathroom +blog
- snow lovers suck
- snow trapped recipes
- when is the fuckin snow going to end?
I’m shaking my fist and grimacing right along with you guys on each and every one of those sentiments. Well, the recipe one makes me scratch my head a little but that’s neither here nor there. If you ask me, the only snow trapped recipes you need to concern yourself with involve hard liquor.
I’ve lived amongst these Yankees for over ten years now, but I just can’t shake my Southern-bred fear (and hatred) of snowstorms. I would never ever dream of driving in this weather, yet there’s almost as much traffic on 14th street as there is on your average sunny, snow-free day. (Granted traffic is backed up because a snow plow just jumped the sidewalk and took out a bike rack, but that doesn’t change the volume of cars outside my window.) These people ain’t got no learnin’.
Even though it’s been more than a decade since I lived with a well, I still get the urge to fill the bathtub with water just in case we should lose power. There’s so much wrong with that statement, I know. First, since moving up here I’ve been without power all of three times…and all were during the summer months. This isn’t the land of generators and wood burning stoves, but old habits die hard. Second, I know that a blackout won’t leave us without water. I swear that somewhere in my brain lives that vital piece of information. Yet somehow I usually manage to fill the tub an inch or so before I remember I’m being ridiculous. I should know better. After all, if the tub is filled with water, where am I going to mix up a large enough batch of cocktails to last until snowmageddon melts? It’s not like I have an inflatable kiddie pool under my bed. (I should really buy and inflatable kiddie pool and keep it under my bed. Also, I’m going to need a whole mess of those No. 10 sized cans of pudding.)
So allow me to amend my previous statement: the only snow trapped recipes you need to concern yourself with involve hard liquor…in copious quantities…and a bathtub.
If that’s true, why did I completely freak my shit yesterday when I realized the snow was starting to accumulate and I had neither milk, nor eggs, nor bread in the apartment? More of that good ol’ Southern fried fear, I reckon. I can’t for the life of me remember why I’m supposed to hoard milk, eggs, and bread. Those three items seem awfully arbitrary to me. I could understand frozen pizzas, ranch dressing, and Greek olives – THOSE are staples. Is there some secret component to Carolina snow that causes a slow painful death if you don’t inoculate yourself with french toast? Couldn’t I just buy some frozen french toast instead?
Of the three items in question, Rocco would argue that milk is the most necessary. He likes his coffee like he likes his women (tall, light, and bitter) and he NEEDS his morning coffee. Apparently coffee drinkers are downright particular about their beverage fixins. I’ve been told coffee without some sort of dairy doesn’t count as coffee. I’ve also been told that shredded parmesan cheese does not count towards “some sort of dairy” when coffee is involved. To which I reply, “If my brother can make White Russians with non-dairy powdered creamer, you can find SOMETHING in this apartment to lighten your coffee.”
If you cross your eyes, White Russians are mostly milk and therefore a perfectly suitable breakfast substitute. I’m thinking about crossing my eyes…
Anyway, these Yankees don’t seem to have the same grocery hoarding compulsions Southerners exhibit. I stopped by the grocery store yesterday on the way home from an appointment and the items in question were well stocked. In Carolina, disheveled house wives would have been weeping openly in front of the barren shelves as the store clerks nursed their open wounds. Here, there were no frantic runs on the Hoboken A&P. The shelves were filled with rows and rows of every bread imaginable. I suppose the population of Hoboken could still be rockin’ their New Year’s no-carb binge, but then the beer selection wouldn’t have looked so slim.
Not that I bought any staples while I was at the grocery store. I know better than to buy eggs when I have to carry them more than twenty feet – even on a clear, ice-free day. I didn’t even buy any non-dairy powdered creamer. I still fell no less than three times as I walked the half a mile between my apartment and the grocery store. Boo. Hiss.
Seeing all this snow reminds me of my last trip home. Mom was wicked upset that Dad’s party had been postponed. We kids tried to console her:
Me: We could make some snow cream…maybe throw in some Baileys?
Mom: I don’t like Baileys.
Mike: I could whip up some lemon snow.
Thom: I could make some chocolate snow.
Me: I could make cherry.
Mike and Thom: …
Mom: Well now I feel much better. I’m just plain relieved those poor people won’t be subjected to you kids.
Since this post is nothing but tangents anyway, I’m thinking about adding a random vagina thing of the week feature. Here’s an example. Thoughts?