Today it’s snowing again. . . and again. . . and again. Those great fluffy whites are giving us a snow job of major proportions. There’s no doubt, the blow job will come later tonight. (The high winds that is!) Then there’ll be snow drifts and white outs to contend with.
I shovel, and I rest.
Three freakin’ shovel-jobs later and there’s still snow coming down like someone exploded a humongous feather pillow somewhere above us. The plow is nowhere to be seen. The roads are like great rivers of marshmallow, ready to suck your tires from the road and throw you in some God forsaken ditch. The very thought of what that entails causes my sphincter to quiver.
I shovel. I rest.
I’m hoping that the Big One isn’t lurking just around the next snow bank for me. My wife’s Chinese horoscope (The Dog) this year says they’ll be a funeral in her future. She’s to avoid working or investing in funeral homes. I didn’t read that part to her. There’s no sense tempting irony to rear its ugly head.
I shovel. I rest. And rest again.
So far no chest pains, no dizziness, just a lot of expletive deletives. How many ways can you curse the snow? I don’t know, but the snow is surely cursing me! It laughs as I throw each shovel load to the wind, only to have it slap me in the face in return.
I shovel. I rest.
Here comes the blasted snow plow, roaring down our street like some great hewer of ice bergs. The monster throws snow in avalanches that tumble to the side in blocks that are frozen as hard as concrete. They tumble into my driveway entrance creating something akin to the Great Wall of China. I curse the driver as he passes, throwing invectives his way, as if they had the velocity and intent of a well aimed snowball.
I shovel. I rest. And rest some more, cuz the next shovel job is the Mother of All Shovels.
Yes, it will take a pick-axe to demolish this icy barrier, perhaps a wheelbarrow and a few sticks of dynamite. Luckily, my neighbor has a gas-powered snow blower. He often arrives in the nick of time, and like a great de-fibulator, he rescues my ass with one powerful blast. That is one rewarding blow job, my friend.
Yet, I shovel and I rest some more.
My hands feel like frozen steak, my feet are wet and soggy and the great snot icicle that dangles from my nose threatens to reach my mouth. This long driveway frustrates my effort, for as soon as I reach the end another layer of fluffy white has covered the beginning. I feel that I’m in a continuous spin cycle.
I rest and I shovel.
After this snowfall they predict warmer days, perhaps even a few above freezing. Praise the Lord!
But these great mounds of crystallized water will slowly transform into great puddles and the yard will begin to look like a landscape suitable for a mud-run by motocross bikes and four wheelers. I pray for spring, even though spring clean up here could easily be featured on Dirtiest Jobs. Scooping up four months of dog droppings, frozen to the grass, thawing gradually with odiferous results, is not my idea of a spring break.
I shovel. I dream. I rest, again.
But alas, the cold will come again freezing everything into a treacherous ice rink of tremendous proportions. There will be the fog banks, then ice rain, some sleet, the slush and all manner of weather, duly summarized as loads of bovine excrement. I will curse every one of them.
Yet I shovel on!
I’ll be walking in a winter’s wonderland for the remainder of this day; slugging and chugging like an old steam engine going up a steep grade. And if I can avoid the big one, I’ll live to see another snow storm or three this season. All I can hope for is a series of blow jobs from my neighbor, otherwise, I think these expanding banks are gonning be the death of me.
Thank the Lord for spicy Jack cheese, hard salami and ice cold beer. That is the engine that might just see me through this.
But, if these blog posts suddenly end , you’ll know the winter and the Big One has got the better of me.