The Conversation We'd Have If You Called Me

Yes, it’s snowing.

Yup, it's a blizzard.

Like 12 inches? It was midcalf when I went out to shovel for the mailman. They say we’ll get 5 more or so today.

No, I can’t shovel until it stops snowing. It’s blowing. It’s pointless to shovel when it’s blowing. It’s uncomfortable and you don’t know where the damn drifts are. The drift between my house and the performance artists’ is about chest high. Seriously. And the snowplows come and you can barely get out of the driveway anyway because they push the snow up onto the apron and you're screwed.

It snowed this much last Easter.

Yes, I’ll think about calling THE PLOW GUY.

Yes. I am happy I bought a new winter coat, but it’s too nice to go out and shovel in. I still have the orange coat.

Well, the flooring dude is coming at 10 am on Monday, so I have to have the driveway clear for him.

I have food. And litter. Coffee. And projects. I went out yesterday for all that. I’m eating leftover birthday cake and I’m making potato leek soup. And I made meatlump yesterday.

You know, cleaning, packing, cooking, the usual.

Oh, Cain did something exciting this morning—he jumped up on this pile of boxes to get at the front window to check out THE SNOW, and his weight pushed them against the CD tower, which fell and pushed one of the chairs and he wound up with a curtain rod in his face like a gun. Startlingly reminiscent of the picture of the National Guardsman pointing the rifle with a flower stuck in the barrel at the hippie.

My birthday cake! I froze it since no one came over. It’s the last hunk.

Specs is on my lap right now. Whiny bitch.

Love you too.