Snowmageddon....Part Three.

 4:17 pm. 

There has been a flurry of activity over the past five hours, if you get my drift. Thanks, Snowbama!

Pam has made cookies.

The fixins for sausage and lentil soup are being prepared.

The wind is starting to blow. When you look outside its hard to tell how much of what is coming down is snow and how much is just snow blowing off of the roof. Either way, the stuff is starting to pile up. At some point Lucy is going to need to venture out into it for her first pee trip since 6:30 this morning. So far she has shown zero interest. I guess we'll soon discover just how strong her bladder actually is.

Speaking of politics...I wonder which Presidential candidate would be most likely to volunteer to shovel my driveway?

Bernie Sanders.....too old, might throw out his back.

Hillary Clinton....not a chance, although she might ask Huma to take a shot at it.

Martin O'Malley...would jump at the chance! Only he would insist on stripping to the waist and asking me to get a shot of his rock hard abs and post it on his Facebook page.

Jeb Bush....wouldn't know how.

Chris Christie...would collapse of a heart attack

Marco Rubio and Ted Cruz would fight each other over who gets to shovel my driveway.

Rand Paul wouldn't want to insult my intelligence by stooping to such pandering.

Donald Trump would promise to shovel my driveway, but would end up sending over a couple of Honduran day laborers to do it.

Snowmageddon...Part Two

10:54am. 

After a mere 30 minutes of snow, the creeping white death begins to pile up.

Ever notice how no matter how often we remember to take care of our bird friends during bad weather, they never reciprocate? When was the last time a few yellow breasted finches dropped a gallon of milk and a loaf of bread on your front steps? What we have here is a one sided relationship. With the birds it's always, take, take, take. It reminds me of the problems we are having with our welfare state. These birds have grown quite accustomed to their largesse. They expect it now. Whenever I let the feeder go empty for a couple of days, they line up on the deck rail out there, all facing towards the house squawking up a storm...."To heck with this early-bird crap, we want our sunflower seeds...NOW!" Then, a few minutes later a couple of crows fly up and get the rest of them even more riled up. They are probably the union agitators of the bird world. Before you know it, little wrens and swallows and such are flitting around the windows dropping twigs all over the deck, and now the protests start sounding more organized.."What do we want??....FREE SEED!!...When do we want it??...NOW!!!" It becomes apparent how things are going to work. I mean, I saw that Hitchcock movie. I cave and give them what they want. I don't want any trouble. Especially today.

Snowmageddon...Part One

What follows is my record of events on this, the 22nd of January in the year of our Lord 2016, the day when the world went white. Snowmageddon. Snowopolis...many clever names have been carelessly thrown about by heartless scolds on the Internet. But I am here to bear witness that...the horror is real. In this blog, I will attempt to record for posterity what it was like to experience, and hopefully survive the monster storm. To all of you fighting the elements along with me...Godspeed!

7:30am. 

Ok, it hasn't started snowing yet, but a "before" picture seemed prudent. Notice that I have filled the bird feeder. My bird-loving son-in-law will be impressed. Also notice that my neighbor has left his car outside facing the wrong way in his driveway. Very poor storm preparation. Also notice that the umbrella at my deck table is still in the fully upright position. Geeze. That's embarrassing.

7:30am. 

Pam has wisely stocked the pantry and fridge with all the essentials. The really good stuff is in the fridge out in the garage.

8:26am. Made it into the office.

Still not snowing.

Despite pending arrival of deadliest snowstorm of this century, greedy Wall Street money-changers still chasing mammon! "Inside the cloud" headline darkly ironic.

                                                ...To Be Continued....

Five Years of Opinions

This month marks the beginning of my sixth year writing this blog. Five years is a long time. I've written an awful lot about a lot of things. Although I can't say that I've learned something, I can say that I'm in the process of learning something about myself...and that is that not every idea that pops into my head deserves an audience. Not every argument that is born in the fever swamps of my imagination needs to be aired, not every thought that bubbles up in the tar pits of my mind comes to me fully formed, not every opinion holds up to the glare of public scrutiny. Self-censorship is a learned skill which requires lots of practice.

My wife probably wishes that I was better at it. Sometimes I write about things that cause her no small degree of discomfort. She will say, "Are you sure you should say that about that when you know that so and so reads your blog?" To which, I usually reply either, "Actually, I never thought about it," or more often..."So?? If so and so doesn't like it, they can start their own blog."

But I am getting better at this whole self-censorship thing. Just yesterday I saw something on the internet that some self-loathing white liberal academic had written trying to assuage her industrial strength guilt, maligning white people for having the gall to celebrate Martin Luther King Day. Maybe two, three years ago I would have taken the bait. But this time I just let it go. The much hyped national conversation on race doesn't need my take on the matter. 

Of course, sometimes I can't resist. I hear nonsense coming out of the mouth of some politician, and before I know what hit me I've just published a thousand word takedown chocked full of sarcasm and vitriol. Or, even worse, some alleged Christian pastor somewhere tries to raise money from the widows in his church so he can purchase a private jet, and within minutes my iPad is smoking hot. Interestingly enough, the blogs that are born out of white hot anger are by far the most satisfying to write. It's insanely fun to obliterate an idiot.

Of course, over the past five years I have benefited greatly from two unpaid editors, the sainted Denise Roy and my long suffering wife. Between the two of them, I get lots of texts and emails that go something like this:

"Ok, remember...it's either/or, neither/nor!!" 

" Pretty sure you meant to say you're instead of your"

" You wrote, take your shorts. Did you mean to say, take your shots?"

Five years has flown by. Here's hoping that five years from now President Trump hasn't outlawed blogging.



Ps. Click those ads people!!!

Diva Dog

Regular readers are aware that my dog Lucy is...special. Over this past year and a half I have regaled you with stories of her bizarre psychosis, strange obsessions and general quirkiness. Now this...

The past few nights have brought very cold temperatures, this morning it is 14. Our backyard has consequently frozen over to the point where walking on the grass produces a crunching sound. Lucy's designated peeing-ground having been so befouled, she now refuses to leave the deck...without escort...regardless of how badly she needs to go. So, this morning there I was at 6:30, in pajamas, slippers and my winter coat, coaxing her off the deck out into the frozen tundra of her yard. She took a few tentative steps on the patio, then cautiously made her way into the grass. When she heard the crunching sounds beneath her paws, she began tip-toeing along like she was walking on glass. It reminded me of those videos of dogs trying to walk with shoes on. After several hilarious hops and leaps we finally made it to the four foot wide border of mulch at the back fence...her go-to urinal. Being a girl, she made several attempts at squatting, but each time she thought better of it, withdrew the offer and began searching anew for a more amenable location to relieve herself. Meanwhile, I realize that wearing pajamas in 14 degree weather might not have been my best decision.

Me: Lucy, for crying out loud. Go already!

Lucy: But Dad...the ground is frozen.

Me: Yeah? That's kinda what happens in winter. Deal with it!

Lucy: But the crunching sound scares me.

Me: Everything scares you.

Lucy: Not everything.

Me: Name one thing that doesn't scare you!!

Lucy: Peanut butter. I'm not afraid of peanut butter.

Me: True.

Well, OK, we didn't actually have this conversation because Lucy can't talk. But if she could this is exactly the type of conversation we would have! Me trying to shame her into doing her business, and her making ridiculously lame excuses. Instead, I stood there freezing while she methodically sniffed out the ideal square inch of pee-worthy real estate. Once she finally finished, she hopped, skipped and jumped back across the yard toward the deck. At the top of the deck steps there is a mat which is still covered in unmelted snow from Sunday. Lucy hesitated, would not step on the mat...preferring to tip-toe around it.

There is a word for this sort of behavior....Diva.

*** WOOF !!!

Today is Monday. Richmond's meteorologists great and small are already salivating over what they are calling an historic snowstorm bearing down on us...this weekend. Why, something called the European model is predicting 22 inches of the stuff. My favorite wolf crier is the dude on the internet who runs the aptly named website...Wxrisk.com. His latest forecast starts in all ALL CAPS thusly:

***ALERT!!!** WOOF  !! MAJOR SNOWSTORM---possibly HISTORIC SNOWSTORM JAN. 22-23

Upon further inquiry I discover that the term WOOF is one of six such designations used to breathlessly describe potential snowfall. It's all a part of an elaborate system whereby Wxrisk.com hypes winter weather. Six different alerts are used, color coded with lots of asterisks and exclamation points. Specifically, WOOF means: significant snowstorm likely which may reach major snowstorm criteria. In case you're wondering what constitutes a major snowstorm, wonder no longer: belly high to a tall dog.

It's exactly this sort of precise scientific language that attracts me to Wxrisk.com. If cool detachment, detailed model maps, and a "just the facts, ma'am" presentation is what you're looking for in your weather forecasts, well then, Andrew Freiden will do. But if you long for meteorological trash talking, hyped headlines and spittle-flying invective, look no further than Wxrisk.com.

Maybe this time they will all be right, maybe there will be historic amounts of the white stuff. If so, at least we got a five day head start on stocking up on bread, eggs and milk. But if, as I expect, we end up with a dusting because the El Niño track inexplicably veered south at the last minute, or the vortex of high level winds were not nearly strong enough to produce enough moisture to sustain the solar flex movement required...or some other ass-covering language that Wxrisk.com will employ to explain his busted forecast,...I won't be surprised.

The Stylish Connoisseur

Pam and I bought furniture yesterday. We were about to buy the exact same furniture back in June when our AC unit stopped working. We decided that air conditioning, over the summer, in Short Pump, was a greater priority. We caught everything on sale and actually saved some money over what we would have paid last year.

I have always wanted a library in my house...and now I have one. We have a seldom used living room which has now been transformed into a beautiful, old money looking library, complete with two new chairs, gorgeous, richly detailed bookcases complete with one of those sliding ladders, and a wonderful writing desk. When it all gets delivered, I'll share pictures.

I was telling one of my nieces who has two little ones how it never really stops...these money-spending demands that life makes of us. Back when we had kids in the house, we couldn't have nice things. Turns out our mothers were right. First of all, with two kids we couldn't afford nice things, but even if we could have, what would have been the point? It would have taken all of two days before one of them would have thrown up all over that beautiful Persian rug. And I'm sorry, all of the overpriced Scottsguard treatments in the world would have been useless against one of my kids' Spaghettios-fueled projectile vomit performances!!

But now the kids are all grown. Their incessant demands for every spare dime of my capital have ended. So now, all that money I thought I would be banking is now flying out of my wallet even faster than it was back when they had crooked teeth. I have a new Downton Abbey-esk library!

About the time we were about to pay for it all I noticed for the first time the marketing slogan for the particular line of furniture we were buying. I have no idea why I never noticed it before because it
was in plain view on all of their signs and whatnot:

Van Buren...for the stylish connoisseur.

I almost called the whole thing off. What a horrible, elitist slogan. I am neither a connoisseur of fine furniture nor very stylish, for that matter....and Martin Van Buren was a terrible President! Oh well.

Of course now buyers' remorse has set in. From now on, The Tempest will be written at my stylish new writing desk, surrounded by richly carved bookcases and handsomely detailed chairs. Will the influence of such finery affect my writing? Will I find myself writing sentences filled with French words like...connoisseur? Good Lord, I hope not. If you, the reader, start detecting excessive high browery, too much reliance on flowery metaphors, and a preoccupation with inheritance taxes...feel free to complain!

Oh...and to help me replenish my newly depleted savings account, please click on one of these ads!!