Sunday, 30 December 2012

Then this...A Repost from Multiply

...and in the same vein.  Written last year, in response to a writing prompt from the United Friends Challenge group of which I was a part.  Enjoy!


I sat before the computer, reading the few words of the challenge, and wrote the first thing that came to mind.:

"He wants me to write what?  A story about snow removal?  What, like how the plow guy charges me $70 bucks every time he has to plow my driveway, and he's some middle-aged geezer not worth looking at twice?  (Do you know how much money that is, in a hard winter with a lot of snowfall?  For a plain guy?  Sheesh!)  Or maybe I should talk about how we don't get our driveway plowed till other more important -- and wealthy -- people do, such as the neighbors next door, whom we've seen drive up their driveway less than five times in the seven years we've been here?  Or maybe he wants a story about the fact that snow removal on our one-lane dirt road doesn't happen till it happens on every other road in the neighborhood.

Now don't get me wrong!  I'm not mad or anything!  Personally, the longer the plow guy takes to clean my driveway, the happier I am!  After all, if I can't drive down it, I can't go to work, and these days, NOT going to work is a very, VERY big deal with me!  It's the highlight of my week!  Mini vacation, here I come!  And the longer he takes to plow it, the longer my winter wonderland can remain intact, pristine...and I can enjoy the sight of the delicate hoof prints made by the deer.

Now, snow plowing is an art, I'll have you know.  There's a symmetry to the plowing, and whenever I watch them drop the shovel and push the snow ahead into a bank, it soothes something inside me, like real art does, like music does.  It's like sweeping, or mopping, which have the same effect on me.  I feel a sense of utter satisfaction, that something is being cleaned, cleared, renewed.  Watching the plow ply the snow is cathartic -- don't ask me why, just accept it!

Okay, okay, I know this isn't a story yet.  Don't be so bloody impatient!  I'm getting to that part!"

I needed to get that moan out of my system, before I started again, on a fresh sheet of paper, so to speak...

"The snow had finally stopped falling, and the silence was as clean and crisp as the air.  It was a thing of beauty, which, as someone said, is a joy forever.  Even after the snow melts in April, that moment will remain embedded in the part of my soul that captures and enshrines the peaceful times.  Anyway, I was sitting at the desk in the office, writing and looking out the window at the landscape.  I was feeling inspired -- the lovers were in front of the fire getting it on, so to speak, or off, depending on your perspective, and the storm was raging outside, to match the one raging inside.  Things were getting hot and heavy on the screen, when the snow plow turned up the driveway.

For some reason, that broke my concentration.  My man was poised in mid caress, unable to move lower to capture the lips of his lover, whose arms hadn't quite managed to pull him down to her, and there they stayed as I watched the plow do its thing.  First, it cleared a path at the end of the driveway, and then it swept up, pushing the snow before it.  Great white, fluffy mounds of feathery ice, piling up on one side, as he had the plow turned to the left.  I watched in a kind of dazed way as he backed down the driveway, and plunged forward again, plow turned to the right.  The hillocks of snow deepened and heightened on either side of a sloping upward path.

I looked down.  My lovers were still suspended in mid embrace, the juices flowing, as much as the adrenalin, not to mention the testosterone and progesterone, and the pheromones were saturating the scene.  And still...nothing.  I couldn't find the words to help them finish what they had begun.  The inanity of watching the plow clear a path for our car to drive up and down, the speciousness of the idea that watching the snow was helping me write, the helplessness of losing the words that would complete the moment -- sort of like losing the erection before the climax -- all weighed heavily on me.

The plow was now at the top of my driveway, as my couple should have been at the top of their game, if you get my drift.  The truck moved backwards and forwards, pushing the snow into little hills around the edges of the driveway, avoiding the garage door, which meant we'd have to shovel the snow away from it when he was done.  The whole activity began to take on the aspect of an altered sexual act, with the snow and plow as the lovers, engaged in a dance of perverted desire.

And even then, deviant as the thought was, nothing spilled over onto the screen where my lovers languished.  The plow guy knocked, was paid, and departed...and I'm sure you can imagine what I thought about HIS role.  Yeah, you guessed it...he's the pimp!  Talk about a sick and twisted mind!

Talk about a wet blanket! My lovers are still stuck in amorous limbo...all because of snow removal. 

First This..."Let it snow!"

(Yesterday ...)

Thick...the snow is coming down in thick drifts.  Fast, flakes chasing each other in swirling, slanted, straight-down showers.  So thick, so fast, the driveway disappears beneath the silent white blanket.

The deluge is quiet.  Not a sound disturbs the eerie stillness...

...except for the washing machine that groans and whines its way, remarking the silent snow; and the  television that squabbles elsewhere to highlight the falling snow; and a knock upon the door that heralds the driving snow.

I sit and watch the quiet storm, the large, fat flakes wrapped around the ordinary snow that builds, winter weather piling up outside my window.

The oil truck can't get up the driveway to deliver the oil to keep me warm as I watch the falling snow...and the tank is empty.

Let it snow!

Friday, 28 December 2012

Naughty Joke...and Very British

This joke is labeled "controversial" in deference to any Christians who may read it and be offended at the thought not only that Adam and Eve were sexual beings, but that Eve enjoyed and (God forbid!) may even have been turned on by the sight of an erect penis on her man!  Please enjoy responsibly!  {#angelgirl.gif}   {#giggle.gif}
vicar of dibley
I was just watching "The Vicar of Dibley". At the end of the show, Geraldine, the vicar (Dawn French), tells a joke which Alice, her assistant, never gets. Here was tonight's joke.
Three nuns die and go to heaven. At the gate, St. Peter meets them and informs them that they have to answer some questions correctly in order to be allowed to enter. He asks the first nun what was the name of the first woman, and she says, "Eve", and he lets her in. The second one he asks where Eve lived and she said "The Garden of Eden", and he lets HER in. The third one was the Mother Superior, and he told her that her question would have to be more challenging than the other two. He asks her what Eve said when she first saw Adam, and she said, "Oh, that's a hard one!" To which St. Peter replied, "That's right! Well done!" and let her in.

Saturday, 22 December 2012

Shame on you!

DISCLAIMER :  If you are a staunch supporter of the NRA, and believe Wayne LaPierre is right in his recent comments, please give this blog a pass.  You won't like what I have to say here!
As a teacher, I have never found myself agreeing with Michael Bloomberg on anything before, and this agreement today is not about education, about which he knows nothing.  It is about the NRA's response to the massacre of children and adults in Newtown, Connecticut two Fridays ago.  Mr. Bloomberg said their response is "a shameful evasion of the crisis".  And for once, he's absolutely right!  Whatever the CEO of the right-to-bear-arms organization says, he is dead wrong when he argues that "The only thing that stops a bad guy with a gun is a good guy with a gun."

The only thing that will finally stop a bad guy from brandishing and using guns is the inability to obtain said guns to begin with.  But that little truth, which is not lost on the NRA, must be vigorously ignored and denied by them, because it affects the bottom line of their gun-lobbying friends, the gun manufacturers who stand to gain from the sale of such weapons.  The right to make money off the backs of victims such as the twenty-six people who died on December 14 must not be denied to these heartless, money-grubbing jerks who see financial opportunity in places the rest of us see only heartbreak and suffering.

Shame on you, Mr. LaPierre!  The grieving families in Newtown are not a political football.  They are not a financial opportunity.  They are wounded human beings who deserve much more than your cold, glib platitudes and heartless "solutions"!  They deserve a respect it is obvious you and those of your ilk cannot find it in your hearts to give to those who have suffered and still suffer to preserve your right to bear arms!

Sunday, 16 December 2012

And now, for something totally different...

...a pause for station identification.

In the wake of the December 14 massacre in Newtown, Connecticut, I find myself curiously empty of words. I started a poem, but it was trite and contrived, and felt wrong. Nothing can make this right. Nothing can speak to the unutterable agonies of those families, of that community.

I can only say to those who are left behind to mourn, and wonder, and question, and rage, whether they be related by blood or by a common humanity:

I am a parent.  My heart is broken for you!
I am a teacher.  My heart is bleeding with yours!
I am a human being.  My heart is burdened for you!

...and may all those who perished, both the innocent and the guilty, finally rest in peace!

Reposted with permission: "A PC Blog" (ROTFLOL)

Politically Correct Holiday Wishes (with warrantee)

Please accept with no obligation, implied or implicit, my best wishes for an environmentally conscious, socially responsible, low stress, non-addictive, gender neutral, celebration of the winter solstice holiday, practiced within the most enjoyable traditions of the religious persuasion of your choice, or secular practices of your choice, with respect for the religious/secular persuasions and/or traditions of others, or their choice not to practice religious or secular traditions at all.

May you have a fiscally successful, personally fulfilling, and medically uncomplicated recognition of the onset of the generally accepted calendar year 2013, but not without due respect for the calendars of choice of other cultures whose contributions to society have helped to make America great (not to imply that America is necessarily greater than any other country), and without regard to the race, creed, color, age, physical ability, religious faith, political belief, sexual preferences, or gender identity of the wishee.

(By accepting this greeting, you are accepting these terms. This greeting is subject to clarification or withdrawal. It is freely transferable with no alteration to the original greeting. It implies no promise by the wisher to actually implement any of the wishes for themselves, herself, himself, itself or others, and is void where prohibited by law, and is revocable at the sole discretion of the wisher. This wish is warranted to perform as expected within the usual application of good tidings for a period of one year, or until the issuance of a subsequent holiday greeting, whichever comes first, and warranty is limited to replacement of this wish or issuance of a new wish at the sole discretion of the wisher.

Saturday, 1 December 2012

The Nicest People...Every Day of the Year!

Was watching a review of Andy Williams's Christmas shows, and this one came on!  I had never heard it before tonight, but it certainly seems like a sentiment I can agree with wholeheartedly!  Enjoy!