Ice, Ice, Baby

Did you know Vanilla Ice has his own show on HGTV? It's strangely watchable.

Anyway, here's a problem with having your washer and dryer in the basement--a basement only accessible via the outside bulkhead: It will be covered in snow. And ice. And more ice. And then some more ice.



I WISH my bulkhead looked like this!



You will find this out when you have a basket of laundry balanced on one hip. You will try to break it with the heel of your boot, the shovel, your steel-trap mind. If ice could laugh, it would be laughing at you. Ice is mean. Mean like the mean girl at work who gets inordinate amounts of pleasure from telling on you to the higher-ups when you have a work gaff. Or makes up stuff when you don't have a work gaff. (I know I'm always saying we should be kind, but we are all free to wish a pox on this girl. The universe will NOT be mad at us. I pinky swear.)

That's an appropriate use of ice. Keeping me from my washer and dryer is NOT.

Not up for pox-wishing? How about wishing ice on her bulkhead (metaphorically) because she doesn't have a swell guy like The Chef, to whom I've put out a call for help. No, not the "Come break my ice" (heh heh) kind of help. The "Can I use your washer?" cry for assistance.  I may have padded the request by waving fresh oysters, clams, and scallops in his direction. This may be a successful ploy.

See the face the lady's making? That's me. See how happy the waiter is? Quadruple that and you've got The Chef.

I want to take one giant leap forward. Stupid wind resistance.

I want to be one of those people who runs. Just throws on some running shoes and goes. All day long I thought about how I was going to do that when I got home.

So when I got home from work, I threw on some running shoes and tippy-toed up my ice-slicked lane to the road, where it was damn cold. But dry and not slippery. I didn’t run, though.

I walked, all hunched over like a C-shaped woman, a veritable comma-lady, trying not to freeze to death. Oh! And I haven’t exercised since October—OCTOBER—before I got sick and had surgery and spent a thousand years recovering. It’s going to be a long time before I can get up to running, because:

1. I have never been a runner anywhere but in my head. (My brain gets one hell of a workout, though.)
2. Even though I didn’t run, I was kind of in shape from walking, which would have made becoming a runner/jogger/trotter easier than the shape I’m in now.
3. My shape is that of a bottom-heavy pear. I do not like this shape. It is not aerodynamically sound.

I know; I know. Baby steps.

I'd just like to go out for a nice walk, so...

NOW I believe it might snow...



This is my road (and my dashboard).



There's no business... when snow's here (hopefully)

The Chef is at work (ha ha ha) in that pesky limbo of "Do I prep the food for a meeting tomorrow or not, since the office will probably be closed, but then again it might not be." (He is big and important, as are his meetings because they DECIDE things while tasting food. Unlike my meetings where we just eat food and then run out of time. The only thing we decide is to have more meetings.  And, by the way, he has a much better command of the English language than that previous pretend quotation--invented by me--implies.)

I responded to his conundrum, because I am not at work, and have plenty of time to tarry:

I just checked out The Weather Channel and it looks like for reals a snowstorm is coming. But I still don’t believe it. I won’t believe it until I am smothered in snow, wishing I had worn warmer socks. I won’t believe it until a series of snow angels created by woodland creatures have appeared on the front lawn. I won’t believe it until the university has cancelled classes.

But just in case, I bought extra Diet Coke.

This could all be a ruse, created by the Bread and Milk Associations of America.

Oh, you want us to think that's snow, but it could just be powdered sugar from a misplaced doughnut.