Shoveling Snow Like a Girl!

So, I was blessed with about 8″ of the beautiful white stuff.  It’s all pretty and fun until it comes time to remove it. The weather report had predicted about 6″ of the fluffy stuff, but I believe we got a few more inches.  Face it, what other job that a weather forecaster, can you get paid a lot of money to do and be wrong about 50% of the time?  Not many, if any.

I listened to the weather report for today, brisk, with a high wind advisory up to 45 MPH, in the low 30’s.  I put on my long johns, a turtle neck, a neck gator, and my brand-spanking new Carhart one-piece insulated outfit.  For footwear, I select my black winter riding boots.  To complete the ensemble, I choose the sweet, light blue and white gloves that my friend got for me for Christmas.  They are a stretchy knit that look as if they will only fit the hand of only a six year old, but stretch out to fit an adult.  I shove on my Olympics blue and red fleece hat and out the door I go.

I leave my snow shovel at the door for the convenience of not having to trudge through snow to get it.  Luckily the snow is fluffy and I begin on the door stoop, shoveling off the snow.  My walkway is a brick stone design in put in several years back and it has moss in-between the stones.  Nice in the summer, but moss with traces of snow and 30 degree temps mean super slippery!  I shovel to the end, into the drive, leading to the garage. After opening the door, I peer inside to begin the tedious process of moving things to pull it out the snow blower that is parked the farthest corner of the garage.  A place my nephew helped move it too last summer.

My garage – it contains: a kayak, two big ladders, a dirt bicycle, a street (thin tire) bicycle, a lawnmower, several beach chairs in bags, a wood front door and a screen door; replacement screens for said doors; a cat tent (more later), the massive pile of boxes remnants from the summer tag sale, 4 regular tires for the car, several rakes, several shovels,   empty bottle bags, boxes with junk, and then more boxes with junk.  My car has never seen the inside of this abode in the 12+ years I have lived here.

I look inside again and spin around, picking up the shovel, knowing it will probably never happen that I will get at that snow blower.  I begin to shovel.  My style is totally unconventional and could trouble the detail-oriented person greatly.  I make diagonal patterns in the driveway, pushing the snow up onto the lawn on either side of the drive.  Cris-crossing the drive and make giant X’s in the snow.    Why, you ask?  First off, it’s easy; secondly it is fun.  I first started doing this when I was shoveling and it was sunny out.  Opening up the mini paths allowed for the snow to hit the black tar driveway and it would begin to help melt the snow.  Depending on how motivated I was, I would sometimes luck out with the sun doing a portion of the removal for me.  There is always a method to my madness, but don’t tell my ex-husbands.

I reconsider the snow blower given the layer of snow waiting for me at the end.  I return to the garage and begin to spend the next three hours re-arranging and shifting the ‘stuff’ inside the garage to get at the snow blower.   I take the opportunity to load up the car with some of the tag sale boxes with a vow to bring them to Goodwill or the like on Monday.  I finally get to the snow blower and to what do my wondering eyes doth appear, but my snow blower with one very flat tire!  I fight with it to move it to the front of the garage down the path I have cleared.  I spin, grab the shovel and head back out.  The good – I got rid of some of the junk.

I am inside now, all warm and snugly and the drive is 99.9% done.  I left the heavy lifting of the end of the drive until tomorrow.  What do I care?  I have no where to go, no one to see and I know, no one is going to steal it, it will still be there tomorrow.

Stay warm~!

(Grammar disclaimer – I shoot for great, but sometimes land on okay.  In other words, if the punctuation isn’t just so, get over it.)

Shovel like a Girl!

The latest in snow-shoveling fashion. Me with my winter horseback riding boots, my Carhart one piece insulated suit and my, “Oh so fashionable dollar store kids gloves.”


1. fodder. One who’s sole existence is to absorb projectiles. I attract bullets, so I’ve assumed the role of team fodder. buy fodder mugs & shirts.


Just listen to the word, FODDER.  Not mudder, you fodder said it.

2. fodder. One who’s sole existence is to accept and share whirling, funny thoughts, stories, tales by way of writing, posting, spewing forth until said audience grabs said belly that aches with pain from laughing spasmastically (a Uniquitous word). Fodder is light, unoffensive and unpretentious dialogue that leaves one desiring more.  Fodder.  (fa-der)



Today’s topic is boobs.  Tits, ta-ta’s, bazongas, pacifiers, whatever you call them.  A post I saw recently was from a woman who jokingly commented on how she tries out a bra in the fitting room.  My comment was, “I could bring a lot to that (in more ways than one)” and I got to thinking, why not write about boobs.

They are the fascination of men and babies and the occasional woman.  They are right there, in your face, sometimes under it, sometimes on your knees or sometimes caught between two cold pieces of glass at the doctor’s office, but they are there.  As a woman, they go with you everywhere.  If you are endowed, they are a handful, PUN intended.  If you are not, I predict that in a future life you will come back either as an animal or as a well endowed woman, after all, that is what reincarnation is about, isn’t it?

For women, men and all others who wonder what it is like, well, let me tell you.  It is cumbersome, not a cummerbund, although at times you wish they were strapped down with one.  They, in my case, weigh about 8 lbs each, and if they don’t I dare you to weigh them when I am said and done.  They tend to always be there, ready to catch whatever bits fall from above – dandruff, rice, drool, lost food, whatever.  When you get older, they like to sleep snuggling or spooning with you.  It’s a nice feeling, you feel comforted and flat all at the same time.  They are unleashed and free.  Free to roam the world and leave you alone untethered.  But then, morning arrives or the clock goes off or you have to pee and once again, there they are, hanging and a swaying too and fro.  (Just where is fro anyway?)

They follow you everywhere, no matter how much you try to loose them.  As you run into the ocean on a hot August day, you try to be graceful about it and as the waves lap around your ankles and the arches of your feet step on the unevenly formed rocky bits, you trip un-gracefully into the next biggest wave and when you finally surface, you realize, OH NO.  The force of your grace has caused you and your garment, the typical bathing suite, to slide, shift or completely come apart and you look down to find the girls, hanging there, catching some sun.   “OH NO,” you think.  Then with age you just think, “Oh well.”

Hell, we all have them.  What is the big fascination with the one woman pack versus the male version?  Do our ancestors the apes cover their ta’s when breast feeding?  No.  Although they are hairy and I too would not find them pleasing.  Oh, how I digress.

So, back to that annoyance in the middle of the night when you  have to get up to pee.  The girls abidingly go with you.  Really, do they have a choice?  If you are old and they are resting on your knees, you must remember to hike them up, for fear of getting a cold wet surprise if they were to suddenly go swimming.  If they are perky, they  mind their manners and you are okay to do your business and return to the comforts of the warm bed.  However, the perky girls don’t spoon.

On that note, on this cold and snowy night, me and the girls are off to spoon and dream about where Fro might be.  Nighty-night!!