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Weekend Werind: Snow Blows, and So Does Snow

There’s a blizzard coming our way. In New England, this isn’t especially earthshattering news. Even for this time of year, the eight inches to a foot of white stuff looming over our Monday commute won’t set any records. When in Rome, you do as the Romans. And when in Boston, you freeze your shriveled extremities off shoveling out of drifts up to your asscheeks.

Come to think of it, why the hell am I not living in Rome? Sounds much better, except maybe for all the Latin speaking and the numerals and the candles. I should probably look into it.

“Evidently, there’s an icicle shoved up my short-term memory hole. Outstanding.”

Meanwhile, the blizzard approacheth. And it’s frigging March, and we’ve been dumped on constantly this winter, and I’m tired of shoveling snow into all the neighbor’s yards. I thought I might devote Monday’s post to bitching all about what a pain it is to deal with snow in March, and wonder what the hell I did wrong this year to deserve this, and how this kind of nonsense never happens around here.

Uh… except.

I took a quick peruse through the twenty-four posts in my Whither the Weather category, and discovered that the last three feature the words ‘Snow’, ‘Freeze’ and ‘Cold’ prominently. So I thought twice about bitching about the wintry weather again. Because I hate to repeat myself.

Er. Except when I do.

Like two years back, when — I just noticed — I posted two entries with identical titles just about a month apart: Snow Business, and (‘Supplies!‘) Snow Business. Evidently, there’s an icicle shoved up my short-term memory hole. Outstanding.

Still, I thought maybe I could salvage the situation. Sure, I’ve bitched about the snow this year. And yes, it appears I obsessed about it in years past. But so long as I didn’t entitle yet another post with a recycled title, then surely it was safe to complain about how ridiculous a snowstorm in March is, right? I mean, what are the chances?

About one hundred percent, as it turns out. You’d think it snowed six months a year around here, as often as I mention it.

You’d be right. Still. That’s no excuse to write yet another one.

Instead, I’ll point you back to mid-March of 2007 (the latter ‘Snow Business’ post above) and an eerily similar bitch from exactly three years earlier in ‘It’s Beginning to Look a Lot Like… Hey, It’s Frigging March‘.

So don’t expect any complaints from me about the “Big Nor’Easter of ’09” tomorrow, or any time thereafter. Blizzards, snow showers, hailstorms, frozen rains, sleetfalls, slushdumps and plagues of locusts — assuming there’s any snow mixed in with the bugs and such — are strictly off-limits for me. I’ve simply said as much about the damned snow as I need to.

For now. At least until next year. So be on the lookout for ‘Snow Business, Take III’ sometime in March of 2010. Because I can’t keep my mouth shut about this stupid springtime snow forever, now, can I?

Permalink  |  3 Comments

3 Responses to “Weekend Werind: Snow Blows, and So Does Snow”

  1. Monkey says:

    >>why the hell am I not living in Rome? Sounds much better, except maybe for all the Latin speaking and the numerals and the candles.

    Never mind the showers.

  2. Deb says:

    Skip the shoveling and do what my neighbor does. He gets in his truck and drives up and down his driveway 150 times, until all the snow is packed down. He then drives up his front walkway doing the same thing, bushes, lawn be damned!

  3. Charlie says:

    Oh, Monkey. First I can’t bathe in Turkey, now I can’t shower in Rome?

    How’s a guy supposed to get himself clean around here without a bunch of furry Mediterraneans pawing at him?

    And Deb, I tried that. Or something similar.

    Except, I don’t have a truck. It’s a Nissan Maxima, and it made it about three feet before digging in and spinning rubber.

    It’s probably good I didn’t get to driving over the walk, what with the steps and the railing and the porch and all. I do plenty enough damage to the property already, without two hundred horsepower worth of ‘help’.

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