Random Ranty Winter Musings

So I did a beautiful, artistic triple toe loop on the ice yesterday, and stuck the landing. Right on my knee. The only really bad thing about living in the South? No, not tornadoes. Those you can hide from.

It's the fact that it gets cold, but it hardly ever snows. All we get is wet little pellets that can charitably be called sneet. And our poor little truck fleet...er, fleet-lette, I guess you could call it, pours sand and salt. Which melts it just enough to let you drive on it, which melts it a little bit more, which freezes solid overnight.

Or we just cut out the middleman and get ice rained down on us. Having worked in retail for lo these many years, I've never understood people's reactions to weather. In short form, the Oklahoma guide:

A heat wave with temps over 100? Shop til you drop and make sure you close up your car. After letting it bake for a few hours, be surprised when your shorts-and-tank clad self comes into contact with the leather seats.

A small, warm, gentle rain? Do not go out under any circumstances.

Thunderstorms? Go about your daily activities.

Tornado watch? See thunderstorms.

Tornado warning? Grab your camcorder and stand in the street to get footage. Your neighbors will be out there, too, so find a good vantage point. Important: sell your footage, don't just upload it to the local station's website.

A blizzard that is more ice than snow? Wait for two hours, until the officials declare a state of emergency. Then decide you have a fatal case of cabin fever and head immediately for the mall. Ignore the mall employees who will glare at you because they want to go home before dark. When the cabin fever has passed and you go home, forget that you live in a predominately warm weather state, and curse all the people on the road who don't know how to drive in ice.

So the sleet started shortly after I got to work yesterday morning, and my boss told me to finish up only the important stuff- the billing, because, you know, we like money- and go home as soon as possible.

Have I told you how much I love that man?

Tell Me The Truth

Did anyone else see this and hear, "YOUNG MAN! There's no need to feel down...it's fun to stay at the YMCA!"

Some Things I Know For A Fact

I know that:

I never ever want to see this stuff again

Salma Hayek has the most impressive rack in the known universe

With parents like this the poor kid never had a chance

I'm glad and munchy that these are here

but I'm downright giddy that these are coming

This looks like the cinematic equivalent of rubbing broken glass in both eyes

Joaquin Phoenix will eat your soul

the world is a much, much sadder place today.

How Far Should I Go For A One-Finger Neighbor?

Perhaps I should explain the term. My dad maintains that there are levels of neighbors; when driving down your street, people may be out watering plants or washing cars or yelling at kids who have just knocked over the mailbox with their bikes, right? With your hands at the 2 and 10 o'clock positions, you can acknowledge the people you don't know that well with your pointer finger upraised. The ones whose names you know, whom you may have spoken with during a blackout or while the men are in the street looking up at the sky and discussing it when the tornado sirens are going off, deserve a two-finger wave. The neighbors that have actually been in your house for a football game and reciprocated with a barbeque get the whole hand.

Well, I have some One-Finger neighbors that have the most obnoxious dogs on the face of the earth. Seriously, I'd rather deal with the turkey-stealing Bumpus hounds from A Christmas Story. One is a Heinz 57 mix of Akita, Chow, and Satan; the other is a Napoleonic Dachsund. We have leash laws in our town, which are obeyed about as frequently as you think they are, and these dogs Own. The. Street.

When they are let out for a potty break (there's no fences in the back yards) the owners just stand there on the porch and hope for the best. If you happen to be out, the Dachsund will zero in on you like a tiny black yapping missile. He'll completely ignore the shouts of his people and run at you full speed until he reaches your leg, whereupon he quivers and growls. It's like facing a small junkie on a bad trip.

The other one is slower and not as loud, but he will stand about five feet away and stare at you. I kid you not, he'll just stare at you. Spookiest thing I've ever seen. The owners are pretty good about coming right over to take the dogs home, but just once I'd like to go out and get my mail without spying the land for hostiles first.

My little diva can be annoying; she hates big dogs, cats, and squirrels and she'll be all Barky McYipperson if the wind blows hard. But when I take her out I have her on a leash, a plastic baggie for her mess, and I don't let her bark very long. If she does manage to intrude on someone's rose bush, I apologise and try not to go past that yard again. But these One-Fingers? "I'll be right there. You better not move."

No. You'd better get a chain. If that Black Terror hallucinates that my leg is a big Milk Bone, or if your spook sacrifices a chicken on my front porch, I'll feel free to give you a different kind of one finger salute.