Tuesday, April 8, 2008
The Writing on the Wall
Two years ago we had a February/March snow season like few I've seen around here. One storm after the other blew in, dropping twelve, fourteen, eighteen inches of snow at a time. Of course, working at home means I can usually get on the driveway pretty quickly, shoveling it clear in between bouts of work to ensure that I'll be able to escape to the wilds of civilization for Starbucks and sushi sometime before the Second Coming. (What about SB, you ask? Well, Party People, SB is rarely home during these monumental events, spring being the best time for him to go to work moving power across 'merica's midsection. And I have the upper body muscles to prove it.)
Not only does snow pile up on our driveway, it also piles up on our satellite dish. Those of you who work at home know how muy importante it is to have working television at all times. So, on with the snowsuit, the snow boots, and the long broom to make the dangerous trek out back to knock the snow off the dish. Halfway there, I heard it: a rumble like distant thunder and then a swooshy sound like sand being pushed by a wave breaking on shore. The sound was coming from above me and I looked up just in time to witness a huge chunk of eighteen inch high snow come rushing down off the roof to land on top of my head. The force knocked me to my knees, the snow covered me completely. But within seconds I put those shoveling muscles to use and was able to burst forth into the sunshine. And complete my mission to free my satellite dish from being likewise smothered so I could spend the afternoon watching Fashion Television.
Since people die in roof avalanches, come summer, we did the responsible thing and called ABC Roofing to install all new gutters and snow breaks. No more roof avalanches.
But I'll never forget that feeling – however momentary – of being buried alive. It sucked. But that's how I feel this week. Part of what I do for a living, other than coming up with my own words, is making the words of others sound much better(er). And that's what I'm doing this week. Fixing other people's words. Lots and lots of them. Which can actually be harder than coming up with ones of my own. Hence, the buried feeling.
So I got nothing much else, except to tell you that I'll be posting about Muffins on Da Baking Blob soon. Oh and this:
Beyonce and Jay-Z got married this weekend. Did you hear they had 100 bazillion Thai peasants pick with their 1,000 bazillion nimble Thai fingers over 100 trillion perfectly bloomed orchids to decorate Jay-Z's Tribeca loft as part of their Twu Wuv ceremony? Sweet jeebus, that's excessive. Even by Moi's whack ass excessive standards. Then again, what else would you expect from a woman who never met a prom dress gone horribly wrong that she didn't turn into a personal fashion statement?
About Jay-Z I have nothing to say. Except that it looks like he buys a lot of shiny, silky stuff. Does he rap?