Thursday, February 11, 2010

I'm Snow Angel

People don’t shovel their driveways in the city where I grew up. They hire a twice-daily snowplow to clear the white death that falls from the sky and drifts from the neighbors’ yards; There’s just too much snow for a human to tackle without assistance.

In the city where I now reside, there is just as much snow, only it falls twice a year instead of every day. Twice a year means no snowplowing services. Twice a year means shovel it yourself. During a hypermaniacal episode on my day off, I decided to do just that.

And now, for a quick math lesson. What do you get when you take a 91-pound bipolar chick, subtract her medicine and add a foot of snow? You get a really interesting sight for the neighbors.

As readers of this blog may remember, I tend to forget my surroundings when engaged in yard work. Last spring I went all Joan Crawford on my rose garden while loudly and obliviously serenading the neighborhood with my rendition of Anarchy in the UK, along with a few Rebel Yells, just so Billy Idol wouldn’t feel left out. I performed an encore last fall, which received mixed reviews from legions of horrified and perplexed window-peeping housewives.
Shoveling the driveway on Tuesday found me similarly engrossed in my work and disengaged from the outside world.

The snow that has fallen is the heavy, waterlogged kind and it takes a lot of strength to clear. This task is made easier when your manic state enables superhuman strength and your I-pod playlist provides aggressive music for momentum. For this task I only dabbled in the very angry but low BPM Hole, and skipped over the pussyish Toad the Wet Sproket entirely. Yes, something’s always wrong, but that wasn’t going to get the driveway clear.

Things would have been fine, had I not forgotten to consider the following:

---You don’t realize how loud you are singing when listening to an I-pod.
---Normal people do not stretch their backs in public by doing back walkovers and other gymnastic moves up and down their driveways.

What follows is the scene countless neighbors—out shoveling their own driveways, a fact to which I was fairly oblivious—were privy to. I cannot be sure exactly how much they heard or saw, but I’m pretty sure it was enough to maintain my status as the Street Pariah.

Shoveling while singing along with Bikini Kill, a band I’ve only recently allowed myself to listen to after a 15-year hiatus: Oh baby/ I want you/You’re so big and hard/You've got such a big cock/ Push it in deeper now/ Oh deeper, harder/ I'm almost cumming/ I'm almost cumming! Wooooooah! Sugar!

Pause to do some back flips as my back hurts. Declare, en masse, that "I’m a self-fulfilling porno-queen."

Commence shoveling while listening to Weezy: I’m not trying to offend the women/ I defend the ladies/ Commend the women/ I cum on the women/ Next night cum in that woman/ Next morning come out that woman/ Next day I don’t remember shit about that woman/ What I do know/ I effed the shit up out that woman!

More back flips. Jumping jacks.

Resume Shoveling. Resume Singing. How about a Grammy selection this time? Whoop that trick/ Get ‘em!/ Whoop that trick/ Get ‘em!/ Whoop that trick/ Get ‘em!/ Whoop that trick/ Get ‘em!

Pause to look at progress. Utter a few choice profanities as progress is not where I’d like it to be.

Resume shoveling. Relive 1999. "Girl you look good/ Won’t you back that ass up/ You’se a fine mother-effer/ Won’t you back that ass up/ Call me big daddy/ When you back that ass up/ Ho, who is you playin’ wit/ back that ass up!

Make a snow angel. Chuck some snowballs at the house for no good reason.

Repeat from beginning until job is complete, approximately two hours later.

After making a spectacle of myself I think two things are clear: First, I need assistance shoveling my driveway. Second, I need assistance, period.

Saturday, February 6, 2010

WF ISO Blanket

As kids, my brother and I both had security blankets. My brother’s actually had a name, Frank Blank, which is not only stupid sounding but even more idiotic in light of the fact that this was his blanket’s nickname, shortened from the even more ludicrous Franket Blanket.

When I was four or five my blanket got "lost". In actuality this was my mother’s tough-love method to break me of what she perceived to be my blankie-addiction. Either that, or she was really, really evil—a proposition which, to this day, I am not convinced is entirely untrue. At any rate, she snatched my blanket while I slept, hid it in a closet, and let me throw myself on the floor in hysterics for a few days until I wore myself out.

I eventually had to put myself back together and trudge on—blanketless—in a cold, cruel world. I had to figure out how to soothe myself sans outside influences, something I’ve never really mastered. (You will note the difference between "soothing" oneself and "satisfying" oneself. I am quite skilled at the latter). Interestingly enough, my mom allowed my brother to keep his pal, Franket, indefinitely. Brat.

My brother grew up to be self-assured, successful and grossly confident. I, on the other hand, have spent the last 25 years in hot, messy, desperate pursuit of anything that will to make me feel secure again.

My blanket has yet to resurface.