As we’ve already discussed, we’re having a hell of a winter here in Nova Scotia. A little while ago we were slammed with a day-long freezing rain storm that basically means you look out your window and see that frigid bitch’s castle from the Narnia movies everywhere you look.
Our driveway was a sheet of ice two inches thick, the car had to be chipped out of a solid block of the cold stuff, and the woolly mammoths passed me on the highway. Oh – and there was this crazy-ass squirrel thing that kept chasing this acorn and I was all, “Dude! I’ll give you food! Why are you chasing that damn acorn you crazy freak?”. And he was all, “Squeak squeak, squeaky squeakerson dontquestionme squeaker.” And I was all, “Whatever man…”
My usual thirty minute drive home took over an hour and a half and three plays of Pokerface on the radio (bluff with your muffin all you please but for the love of god stop playing the same song over and over!). When we finally got home, I Bambi-on-iced my way to the front door and safely avoided falling and cracking my brittle bones on the concrete despite how awesome a story it would make to have curbstomped myself.
The next day it was a balmy eight degrees (46F) and the world had gone straight from Ice Age to Noah, fetch the Ark! Naturally, I assumed I was in the clear because I can swim marginally better than I can skate plus it’s tougher to smash your head in against water than pavement. Of course I should have known that this foolish confidence would be exactly what would lead to the powers that be (Jesus? Obama? Shamu?) smiting me down.
The newf watched from the driver’s seat as I walked toward the car after paying for gas. As he turned his head, I heard the sickening sound of my shoe gliding over ice and I think I even managed to get out a: “Oh MOTHERF-” before slamming into the ground. When the newf looked back, I was gone.
Well…actually, I was lying in a puddle, listening to the laughs of a teenaged gang across the parking lot and simmering in my own rage. I’ve since had to stare at what looks like my shin at eight months pregnant.
(Lame tribute to Bad Mutha Fudruckers)That made no sense and I’m sorry.