It’s my fault

I take full responsibility. Two days before a monster storm roared over us, I stood in my driveway, clearing away a piddling six inches of snow and chatting with my father-in-law. “Been a pretty easy winter,” I said, like a stupid teenager in a horror movie talking about how it’s probably safe to go in the attic. “Why, we’re halfway to spring already.” Total idiot. So, the ensuing onslaught was my fault and my shame couldn’t be any greater.

Now that’s commitment

Right smack dab in the middle of the blizzard, I saw a young lass walking up Pleasant Street, bundled from head to toe with the exception of one thumb and one index finger, which she was using to manipulate her telephone keyboard. Plows went by and great waves of snow rushed passed her, but did the young lady notice? As far as I could tell, she never looked up from her phone a single time and God only knows where she ended up. I suspect we’ll find her at the bottom of a snowbank in the spring, her blue fingers still pecking at the keys.

Bad to the bone

The Postal Service canceled deliveries when the storm was at its worst, but the Sun Journal did not. I would like to point out one more time that newspaper delivery people are as badass as they come.

White stuff

For one reason or another, media types seem to be fixated on this playful appellation as a means of describing snow. I am not one of them. If you ever come upon the use of the term “white stuff” in one of my many, many, many weather stories, feel free to laugh, point and stuff said white stuff down my pants.

If it’s yellow, let it mellow

You know what they say: Every time a toilet is flushed on Super Bowl Sunday, an angel gets another beer.

Historic Super Bowl blunders

I once made the colossal mistake of skipping the Super Bowl in order to go out on a date with a lass who wanted to walk on the frozen sands of Popham Beach. Even though I was with a woman – a part-time model, even! – the grief I took over the decision to forego the Super Bowl was brutal. I was accused, by manly co-workers and friends, of A.) Eschewing sports in order to go shopping for skirts; B.) Wearing said skirts; and C.) No, actually A and B were the extent of it. My own brother disowned me for several hours before his ensuing blackout caused him to forget the whole thing. So, with the lessons of that dark time in mind, I make a solemn promise to friends and football fans everywhere that I will not go out on a date with a model today, nor will I don skirts, skorts or anything made of taffeta. There. You happy?

Shovel envy

You know those guys who keep their yards 100 percent clear of snow, no matter how much has fallen, and who somehow manage to do so with perfectly even lines so that it looks like their snowblowers are equipped with advanced lasers and slide rules? Don’t you just want to creep over to their houses in the middle of the night and shovel all that snow back into their driveways? Let’s do it some night. I’ll bring cocoa.

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