BugginWord » snow

Like a Margarita on a Mexican Beach, But Different

BugginWord — Mon, 21 Mar 2011 16:48:12 +0000

It can’t be snowing again. It just can’t. I refuse to accept that this is happening.

I pick a new reality. I’m actually on a beach somewhere in Mexico sipping on a margarita that Javier Bardem just brought over on a gilded tray. Also? I look just like Penelope Cruz. And Rod Stewart is retired. And I can suddenly spell the word restaurant (WITHOUT spell check). And nothing anywhere in the world is breaking or exploding or radioactive.

*clicks ruby slippers three times, opens right eye, still sees snow and rain*

Harrumph.

This calls for desperate measures, people. I hate to whip out my big guns this early in the week, but I don’t think we have a choice.

Yes….it’s time for….A BABY PYGMY GOAT STAMPEDE!

You’re welcome. We’ll get through this Monday yet…

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The Problem With Fall

BugginWord — Thu, 30 Sep 2010 16:51:02 +0000

I don’t understand why you people get so excited about Fall. Sure, it has it’s positive qualities: apple picking, using the oven again, pretty colored leaves, Libra birthdays *fist bumps*. But nobody ever talks about it’s dark side – the evil, putrid underbelly of this mistakenly beloved season.

Fools.

If you ask me (not that you did, but that hasn’t managed to stop me yet), Fall is the seasonal equivalent of a Sunday. Technically, Sunday is still part of the weekend. You can sleep in. You don’t have to go to work. You could enjoy a nice brunch, watch the CBS Morning Show, or sleep off your Saturday debauchery. But by about 2pm, if you’re anything like me (which means you secretly hope Jim Henson is cryogenically frozen somewhere and someone is cloning his brilliant muppet-producing brain) all you can think about is how much you’re dreading Monday and the hellish week ahead of you. Am I right?

Unless your day job is to stare lovingly into Justin Timberlake’s eyes while he records tracks for the new album I like to pretend he’s working on, I’m right. If by any chance that is your day job, call me. I’m all about an internship.

So if we stick with this analogy, you might argue that it’s still only Sunday morning and I’m getting excessively anxious. The thing is, I’m not exactly known for my patience. So it might as well be 2pm (or even later!) and I can feel my ulcer developing already.

Here in the Northeast we’re enjoying Day 4 of buckets of rain. In a few short months that will be buckets of snow. SNOW. (Boo, hiss – we hates it.) And you know what that means. Your favorite Elly, in a haze of fluffy white insanity, will be frantically waving around a letter opener while cackling maniacally and reciting her ABC’s, wearing her snow boots and every single sweater she owns simultaneously.

Winter doesn’t exactly bring out the best in me.

It also doesn’t help that I had to leave Mildred with the vet this morning. She’s almost a little lady kitty now, so it’s time to have her uterus ripped out of her sweet furry belly. It’s possible the lack of adorable is making me a wee bit sullen.

Oh I know, what will cheer us both up – the best moment ever in the history of the Cosby Show. Ta-frickin’dah!

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I’m a Team Player

BugginWord — Sun, 28 Feb 2010 17:43:10 +0000

[My phone rings...]

Me: Mwah time is it? Where am I?

Rocco: Sorry Hon, where did you park the car?

Me: Is it Tuesday? Oh wait, you’re driving?

Rocco: It’s Friday. The buses aren’t running.

Me: I think it’s on Garden.

Rocco: K, thanks.

Me: Be safe, k?

Rocco: K.

[Time passes. Then Rocco's phone rings...]

Rocco: Hey.

Me: Where the hell are you?

Rocco: At the ferry. Why? Where are you?

Me: Standing in the middle of Garden Street with a pair of skillets.

Rocco: Um, why?

Me: To help you dig out the car.

Rocco: It’s too buried. I gave up. We don’t have a shovel.

Me: I know, that’s why I ran downstairs to rescue you with my trusty skillet.

Rocco: The cast iron skillet?

Me: Now who on earth would use a cast iron skillet in the snow?

Rocco: …

Me: I’m going back inside now.

Rocco: Did you bother to put on real clothes or are you still wearing your pajamas as you stand there in snow boots holding skillets?

Me: Goodbye.

Rocco: Bye.

Three days later, the car is still completely buried.

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Please Tell Me That White Stuff is Glitter

BugginWord — Fri, 26 Feb 2010 17:41:48 +0000

My favorite voicemail, which I just can’t bring myself to delete, is from my mom. There’s no greeting, no introduction, no pleasantries, just one sentence: “Just wanted to tell you it’s fucking snowing here.”

Sing it, sistah.

Someone please tell me that it’s not really still snowing. Tell me that all the white shit in the sky is just the already fallen snow blowing around. Also, someone please remove all the sharp pointy things from my apartment so nobody gets hurt. While you’re at it, you might as well vacuum, too.

I know you guys are with me on this. How do I know? Here’s just a few of the site’s more popular searches from the past 48 hours:

fucking snow
how much fuckin snow are we going to get thursday?
i hate the snow lovers
+vibrator +bathroom +blog
snow lovers suck
snow trapped recipes
when is the fuckin snow going to end?

I’m shaking my fist and grimacing right along with you guys on each and every one of those sentiments. Well, the recipe one makes me scratch my head a little but that’s neither here nor there. If you ask me, the only snow trapped recipes you need to concern yourself with involve hard liquor.

I’ve lived amongst these Yankees for over ten years now, but I just can’t shake my Southern-bred fear (and hatred) of snowstorms. I would never ever dream of driving in this weather, yet there’s almost as much traffic on 14th street as there is on your average sunny, snow-free day. (Granted traffic is backed up because a snow plow just jumped the sidewalk and took out a bike rack, but that doesn’t change the volume of cars outside my window.) These people ain’t got no learnin’.

Mmm Pudding

Even though it’s been more than a decade since I lived with a well, I still get the urge to fill the bathtub with water just in case we should lose power. There’s so much wrong with that statement, I know. First, since moving up here I’ve been without power all of three times…and all were during the summer months. This isn’t the land of generators and wood burning stoves, but old habits die hard. Second, I know that a blackout won’t leave us without water. I swear that somewhere in my brain lives that vital piece of information. Yet somehow I usually manage to fill the tub an inch or so before I remember I’m being ridiculous. I should know better. After all, if the tub is filled with water, where am I going to mix up a large enough batch of cocktails to last until snowmageddon melts? It’s not like I have an inflatable kiddie pool under my bed. (I should really buy and inflatable kiddie pool and keep it under my bed. Also, I’m going to need a whole mess of those No. 10 sized cans of pudding.)

So allow me to amend my previous statement: the only snow trapped recipes you need to concern yourself with involve hard liquor…in copious quantities…and a bathtub.

If that’s true, why did I completely freak my shit yesterday when I realized the snow was starting to accumulate and I had neither milk, nor eggs, nor bread in the apartment? More of that good ol’ Southern fried fear, I reckon. I can’t for the life of me remember why I’m supposed to hoard milk, eggs, and bread. Those three items seem awfully arbitrary to me. I could understand frozen pizzas, ranch dressing, and Greek olives – THOSE are staples. Is there some secret component to Carolina snow that causes a slow painful death if you don’t inoculate yourself with french toast? Couldn’t I just buy some frozen french toast instead?

Of the three items in question, Rocco would argue that milk is the most necessary. He likes his coffee like he likes his women (tall, light, and bitter) and he NEEDS his morning coffee. Apparently coffee drinkers are downright particular about their beverage fixins. I’ve been told coffee without some sort of dairy doesn’t count as coffee. I’ve also been told that shredded parmesan cheese does not count towards “some sort of dairy” when coffee is involved. To which I reply, “If my brother can make White Russians with non-dairy powdered creamer, you can find SOMETHING in this apartment to lighten your coffee.”

If you cross your eyes, White Russians are mostly milk and therefore a perfectly suitable breakfast substitute. I’m thinking about crossing my eyes…

Anyway, these Yankees don’t seem to have the same grocery hoarding compulsions Southerners exhibit. I stopped by the grocery store yesterday on the way home from an appointment and the items in question were well stocked. In Carolina, disheveled house wives would have been weeping openly in front of the barren shelves as the store clerks nursed their open wounds. Here, there were no frantic runs on the Hoboken A&P. The shelves were filled with rows and rows of every bread imaginable. I suppose the population of Hoboken could still be rockin’ their New Year’s no-carb binge, but then the beer selection wouldn’t have looked so slim.

Not that I bought any staples while I was at the grocery store. I know better than to buy eggs when I have to carry them more than twenty feet – even on a clear, ice-free day. I didn’t even buy any non-dairy powdered creamer. I still fell no less than three times as I walked the half a mile between my apartment and the grocery store. Boo. Hiss.

Seeing all this snow reminds me of my last trip home. Mom was wicked upset that Dad’s party had been postponed. We kids tried to console her:

Me: We could make some snow cream…maybe throw in some Baileys?

Mom: I don’t like Baileys.

Mike: I could whip up some lemon snow.

Thom: I could make some chocolate snow.

Me: I could make cherry.

Mike and Thom: …

Mom: Well now I feel much better. I’m just plain relieved those poor people won’t be subjected to you kids.

Since this post is nothing but tangents anyway, I’m thinking about adding a random vagina thing of the week feature. Here’s an example. Thoughts?

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Sappier Than a Nicholas Sparks Story

BugginWord — Mon, 22 Feb 2010 17:55:50 +0000

I’ve got rock climbing on the brain today. “Really Elly?” I hear you asking. “I don’t really think of you as the rock climbing type.” Yeah well, just because I’ve never actually attempted rock climbing doesn’t mean I can’t still use it as the basis for an analogy. I’ve never been to space, but still I learned how to say,”I can drive a space shuttle,” in Spanish – just in case. I’m a wild woman after all.

I also may or may not be a little fragile today. I’ve got my quarterly appointment with Dr. Doom tomorrow and I’m just as nervous as ever. You’d think this would be getting easier, right? Me too, but so far…

Each time Aloysius pats my hand and tells me I’m clean and healthy, the odds of me receiving the same results at the next appointment improve exponentially. Each visit should be less frightening because at each visit there’s less chance I’ll hear bad news. I’ve come so far *jumps up and runs around the room, arms raised, singing the chorus from Eye of the Tiger* and yet…I think my dread of these appointments is increasing as more time passes because I have so much more to lose.

I’m pretty sure I’m as physically recovered as I’m going to get. My hair is back, my muscles are strong, my skin is thick, my brain synapses fire (mostly, as long as house keys aren’t involved), my heart plods along dependably, and I’m not in pain. Most importantly, I recognize that gal that looks back at me in the mirror. (Though, someone should really encourage her to groom those eyebrows.)

Coolest Climbing Wall Ever

So back to the rock wall analogy: if you fall in those first few feet, no big whoop. You’re not that invested yet. It’s not that daunting to dust yourself off and climb those first three feet again, no big hardship, no huge deterrent. Say you make it to six feet and have to start all over again. Not so bad, right? Sure it’s annoying, but you’re still a little detached from it all and resigned in the knowledge that the odds of you falling again are pretty damn high.

Then somehow you reach nine feet, then twelve feet, and your perspective starts to change. Suddenly the view below you is more overwhelming than the view above you. If you crash and fall now, will you even have the strength to make it back to this point, not to mention the rest of the journey to the top? That’s assuming, of course, that the tumble back to the base of the wall doesn’t break something in you irrevocably, preventing you from even trying the climb again.

So here I hover, looking for the hand hold that I’ll use to pull myself up to fifteen months feet, and I’m just trying not to look down.

Oh hell, I can’t leave you guys on such a depressing note on a frickin’ MONDAY in the middle of the snowiest coldest ickiest February ever. I want you kids to come back and that’s not going to happen if you off yourself after reading this bout of wallowing. So, I’m going to share a couple snippets from the journal I kept during the experience.

Here’s an excerpt from the entry I wrote right before my first treatment. I think I’ve shared before that my cousin Sarah is also a survivor. She gave me tremendous support and coaching through the fun journey that is cancer. She’s a total rock star, by the by.

Sarah also mentioned the power of visualization. Her doctor had explained to her how the drugs were like Pacmen chomping through the cancer. So while she sat in the chair with the IV, she visualized him chomping through her body devouring all those bad cells. Now I don’t like the idea of some strange man traveling through my chest, so I’m going with Mrs. Pacman. She’s a little more fabulous with that big pink bow – and she was working that bald thing! Christ – here we go.

And here’s a chunk of the entry I wrote immediately following my last treatment. Rituxan is a monoclonal antibody that basically works like orange spray paint to flag which cells are cancerous (that is not, by the way, the official medical description for the drug). I had made the mistake of asking what would happen if I still had cancer cells after the last round of chemo. The answer had been radiation and a bone marrow transplant.

After Aloysius laid that radiation shit out on the table at the last exam, I had to take my visualization technique up a notch. As I was getting my Rituxan, my little Mrs Pacmans were getting down and dirty. They were chasing down rogue lympho cells with no mercy – wild gangs of Mrs Pacmans angry on the gritty streets of my veins – 3 of ‘em at a time, faces all smudged with grime, red hair bows tattered and askew, broken red heels, knees caked with glass and dirt – holding down those lympho cells, knees to throats and groins and screaming “yeah bitches, you’re going down! We’re holding you here till back up comes and we’ve rounded up all your little lympho friends, you mother fuckers.” And then I flooded those trapped, beat up cells with 3 days of chemo. No fucking way they survived that shit. The day is mine, Trebek. Thanks but no thanks on the radiation, kids. I think we already took care of it.

I’d have the strength to do it all again. But if it’s all the same to you, I’ll just keep moving forwards.

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Enough. With. The. Fucking. Snow.

BugginWord — Tue, 16 Feb 2010 17:48:00 +0000

Save your “oh but I LOVE the snow” vagina face for someone who cares. I hate Snow. Snow is dead to me. It’s simply over between the two of us. Snow and I will never, ever get along. Just stop trying to get us back together already.

We were in love once, you know. We were young, foolish, and lived in a much more temperate climate. I didn’t see much of him, so he seemed exotic and magical. When Snow came to town, everyone noticed.

I grew up near a golf course with a massive hill, completely devoid of trees and rocks. In the summer, Thom and I would climb to the top, flop on our sides, and roll down in a frantic race to reach the bottom. Usually I hurled. But that was cool because then we had obstacles to avoid, making the whole exercise far more dangerous and exciting.

In the winter though, that hill was plain magic. Kids would come from miles around to tackle that snowy mountain. We’d bundle up in our hand-me-down snow pants from our Illinois cousins (Thom looked fantastic in 80′s hot pink puffy racing stripes) and spend hours defying death while Mom whipped up a batch of snow cream. (By the by, I put a bowl out on the fire escape during my first NYC snow storm with dreams of making snow cream. I’ve never seen anything more disgusting. Also, I’ve never again tried to catch a snowflake on my tongue.)

We broke up in college. Maybe it was trudging around campus in all that billowy bullshit. Maybe it was having to drive in his wake. Regardless, it was time for us both to move on, but Snow just couldn’t let go. Then things started to get awkward.

I think it might have been because that patchouli wearing hippie I shacked up with Freshman year was from South Carolina and got SO excited when Snow would come to town. It was disturbing to see those two chumming it up and rolling around with each other. I discussed the issue with them both separately, and we all agreed that Snow should just go away for a while, give us some space. The summer passed without incident, but come January Snow showed up unannounced and the two of them were out carousing till all hours. I ended up ditching them both, but like the sweet stench of patchouli, Snow always sticks around longer than you’d like.

After I moved north, things just escalated. I was seeing a lot more of Snow, and it wasn’t good for either of us. Plus we were on his home turf.

There was a time when we could be civil. If Snow happened to show up at a party I was attending, I could play nice, make small talk, and avoid a major confrontation. But Snow just had to keep taking it up a notch. Showing up ALL WINTER LONG, tripping me in public, ruining my nice shoes. Fucker.

This year has been the worst. Snow has started to stalk me. I took a trip down South and that summabitch FOLLOWED me. He dumped a foot of snow on ill prepared Greensboro, NC and ruined my daddy’s party. That party was open bar, damnit! That’s a nasty, low blow…even for you, Snow.

Then that bastard followed me back to Jersey and dumped another ass ton of his filthy frozen funk. When I mentioned to some friends that I might travel back down to NC to try and catch the rescheduled party, he traipsed down there and dumped more snow as a threat. Well, you don’t scare me Snow. You’re not my first stalker. I’m meaner than you, rat bastard.

So now, I think there’s just been too much bad blood for too many years. Snow and I are never going to make peace. It’s better if we just agree to give each other space and avoid each other at all costs. I’m resigned to hiding indoors while he pisses all over winter.

All the same, I’m ready for him to leave for a few months so I can make out with Sunshine again.

Snow. Boo. Hiss.

Also? The cold makes my Avatar hangover so much worse. Grumble.

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Pterodactlys, Apologies, and Weddings

BugginWord — Wed, 10 Feb 2010 17:38:08 +0000

Do you know what I like about the snow? Not a God. Damn. Thing.

Not that I wouldn’t still be wallowing in a vat of crabitude were it a balmy, sixty degree, sun-filled day. I seem to have caught a strain of that insomnia that’s going around and I’m in the mood to kick puppies while ripping candy from the hands of children.

…and I’m really mad at my friend Gwen. As you may remember, there’s a wedding in the planning stages and this recently appointed Old Married Hag of Honor (OMHoH) is already having nightmares of epic butt bow proportions.

After hours of flopping and fretting, I finally managed to achieve sweet slumber somewhere around 3am. Gwen, that bitchy bride, was barking orders the minute I hit R.E.M. I was incredibly frustrated because it was so hard to give her my “I hope you realize your husband-to-be owes me some serious jewelry after this shit vagina face” through my bedazzled and glitter encrusted Phantom-of-the-Opera-esque mask.

All the bridesmaids were wearing similar face decorations. Somehow the catty bridesmaid with a huge mane of black hair had no problem dishing out the mean looks through her mask. If I hadn’t already been dreaming, I probably would have had nightmares about the glare she gave me after I pointed out she should probably put a pasty or something over the exposed third nipple that had grown out of her bicep. The DJ (our friend Creamed Corn) kept encouraging her to flex her guns and make the nipple dance. Gwen thought ending that distraction was my first priority as OMHoH. She was conveying this message via interpretive dance, of course.

I had bigger problems, however. Apparently no one had remembered to address the contract rider from the animal wrangler. I was frantically trying to persuade him not to pack up the Pterodactyls and Rhesus Monkeys, to convince him that both his chilled case of Boone’s Farm wine and the bucket of Cajun style fried lizard sticks would arrive at any moment, that if he packed up the animals now, I wouldn’t have time to affix their bonnets and tiny tap shoes. He was unmoved by my pleas and bribes.

Before I could offer the animal wrangler the pistachio hull encrusted pogo stick I had hidden behind my back, Gwen’s father-in-law flew by in his tie-dyed jeep while singing “I’m a Little Teapot” and tossing gold fish about like flower petals. That was our pre-established signal for “Elly, come quickly – there’s a problem with the fourteen tier fruit display/champagne fountain.” So obviously I had to then sprint through the woods wearing high heels, tripping over my ginormous butt bow, and trying to avoid running into the lactose intolerant trees due to the limited visibility caused by my Phantom of the Wedding face mask.

That went on for about three hours. I seem to remember something else about playing a 3D, life-sized game of Chutes and Ladders that ended with Menudo performing the greatest hits of Air Supply, but that part of the dream is a little hazy.

Needless to say I’m completely exhausted and I’m no longer speaking to Gwen.

…and all that happened BEFORE the blizzard. Grumble.

I hope that bitch is choreographing her apology and buying me a plane ticket to Mexico.

In other news, I have to throw a shout-out to Amanda over at Brilliant Sulk. Her comment yesterday made me snarf and spew Earl Grey all over Lucy. My cat totally hates you now, Amanda. This is for you:

Why yes, I DO have far too much free time. Thanks for pointing that out.

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Snow. Boo. Hiss.

BugginWord — Mon, 21 Dec 2009 17:42:23 +0000

It would seem that I, Elly Lonon, am the only person on the face of the planet that doesn’t like snow. Well I just don’t. And no amount of cutesy photos of kids making snow angels or tweets about your dog’s icy paws is going to change my mind, damnit. So suck it, snow lovers – you bitches are crazy.

Commuting Snowman

Even my husband (the TRAITOR) interrupted yesterday’s intense brainstorming session (yes, I was totally about to solve the clean energy crisis) by dancing a little jig in his polar bear covered boxers and singing “I love the snow” to the tune of Madonna’s “Borderline.” I somehow resisted the compulsion to throw my mug of green tea at his shimmying ass, but just barely. He’s lucky my fingers were too cold to work properly.

Fucker.

In my mind, Hell isn’t some fiery molten burning pit. It’s an arctic tundra with constantly falling snow and howling winds. And Rod Stewart is my only companion.

Snow isn’t just cold; it’s wet, icky and treacherous – like Joe Lieberman. The only way I’ll voluntarily interact with crushed ice is served in a cocktail glass with a disproportionally large splash of alcohol and a tiny paper umbrella, preferably served to me by a well tanned, shirtless waiter on a tropical beach. I damn sure don’t want ice sprinkling into my collar, or drifting over the tops of my boots, or burying my car, or making my stoop treacherous, or…you know…generally wreaking havoc on my very existence. I’ll say it again. Boo. Hiss.

My little chemo addled brain feels like a drunken hamster trapped in a spinning exercise ball when I try to understand the people that willingly travel to cold destinations in search of snow. Vail? Aspen? Tahoe? What the HELL is wrong with these people? Then after spending large amounts of money and effort to reach said wintry destination, they plan their itineraries to maximize their interactions with the sub-arctic temperatures.

If someone drugged and kidnapped me, then I woke up at one of those hideous ski resort places, I’d hole up in the hot tub and drink my weight in hot toddies and Baileys-infused hot chocolate until the preheated taxi was idling at the front door to take me to the airport. I damn sure wouldn’t ride some crazy lift through the frigid air, strap a pair of 2×4′s to my feet, then hurl myself down an ice covered mountain. As my Appalachian kin say – That don’t make no sense.

Ok, I’ll admit it’s amusing to see the drunks flopping around in Times Square, attempting to make snow angels between the piles of vomit and yellow snow, but that loses its appeal after four hours, tops. It’s also nice when everyone with half a brain runs home to hide, and the normally swarming streets of NYC are able to stretch languidly down the length of the island in their absence. Being the only set of footprints on Broadway doesn’t happen very often, nor last very long. Ten minutes? Maybe fifteen? Then you’re left with mucky slushy ick for weeks to come. It’s been a long time since I’ve done accounting, but even I can see the cost-benefit ratio there is not good. Not good at all, people.

You snow lovers wouldn’t buy a pair of pants that lifted and squeezed your ass into the perfect replica of a nineteen year old Heidi Klum butt for the first half hour, then morphed your booty into an imitation of Susan Boyle’s rump in water-logged Depends for the following six days. Wait, would you? You’re willing go out and “play” in the wet and cold. Clearly your decisions are driven by something other than logic and sanity. Maybe you would go and buy those ridiculous mythical pants. I’m done trying to reason with you crazy masochists. That’s it. We’re breaking up.

It’s not even technically winter yet and even more snow is on the way. I’m never going to make it, people. I’m not leaving my house again until May.

Here are some photos of funky NYC snow, merely seven hours after falling. It’s disgusting already. I’ll say it one more time: Snow = Ick. Boo. Hiss.

Pretzel - Before and After

A Small Puddle of Funk

Snow is in Session

Mounds of Misery

Snow Flinging

A is for Arctic