Well, it looks like we’re expecting six to twelve inches tonight.
(Yes, I mean snow. Yes, there are a multitude of penis jokes I could make now. And no, I’m not going to do it. I can’t do all the work around here. Knock yourselves out — go ahead; you’ve earned it.)
Anyway, I don’t know about your particular neck of the planet, but March snowstorms are sadly not so uncommon in the Boston area. A few years ago, there was even snow in April. Sure, it was April first (no fooling!), but apparently, it was a pootie-pile of snow, too. Like a foot, or close to it. Like — well, you know, like we’re supposed to get overnight. Dammit, I just put the snow shovel away, too.
So, I guess I’ll have to dig the car out tomorrow to get to work. Talk about adding searing, chronic back pain to injury. It’s bad enough to schedule nine o’clock meetings on holy happy Hump Days; is it really necessary to add a thick white layer of nasty meteorological inconvenience, too? That’s just rude. Bad universe! Bad! Naughty!
On the other hand, maybe enough of the freezy flakes will fall to get me out of work altogether. That would be sweet, especially as I’m starting to feel my annual March Madness-itis coming on. It’s this weird, uh, bug that hits every year, just as the NCAA basketball tournament is getting under way. It only seems to hit me on the weekdays when the games start at noon; it’s weird that way. Probably a virus or something.
Anyway, I should probably get some rest. Gonna have to be up extra early, if I want to get to that meeting on time.
And, infuriatingly enough, even if I don’t want to be there on time. Or at all. Or conscious at that hour. Work at noon, I can handle. Three in the afternoon, fine. At nine in the morning, I should be crumpled on a pillow somewhere, drooling profusely and dreaming about being a Viking, or Mongol, or fierce corporate raider. Something with pillaging, and maybe setting fire to stuff. That sort of thing.
But what I should, under no circumstances, not be doing at three hours before noon is sitting at a conference table, staring with droopy, watery eyes at the other poor saps in the room, trying to focus on whatever the hell it is that’s so damned important to demand that we get up before the chickens to chitter-chat about it. Maybe I’m just not a morning person, after all.
Yes, we’re all about the earthshattering personal revelations around here, folks. Boy, this ‘blogging’ thing really brings out the soul, don’t it?
Eh. Screw it. I’m off to bed. G’night, folks!Permalink | 6 Comments