Friday. I'm in Love.

I do realize that I promised a blog on Monday giving you a rundown of the fun I've been having for the past year or so.  Monday came and went, and nobody was surprised that nothing popped up in their RSS feeds from me.  Admit it.  I wasn't surprised, either.

Mostly, I wasn't shocked because I spent the weekend riding out a torrent of vomit and diarrhea around the house.  The Pale Rider, the Grim Specter of Death, whose poisonous touch brings about a pestilence and who leaves gasping, retching, heaving broken, disease-ridden bodies in its wake, took a turn through the house.  I realize that I'm now thirty-eight, and though my mind likes to think that I'm still in my twenties and that I'm flushed with the hale and hearty glow of youth, my body likes to say "Whoa, there, fella.  You might need to take a rest or two before commencing with grabbing life by the horns."

Plus, Monday was President's Day, and no one was at work anyway, right?  I mean, I wasn't at work, so you shouldn't have been at work, either.  Yeah, we'll go with that excuse.

Anyway, I'm feeling much better.  I've been rescued from the lingering, lasting feeling of nausea that had settled into the pit of my stomach over the weekend, and the boneweariness of the fatigue that had suffused itself deep into my being has mostly gone.  One could say I've been cured of the illness from which I had been ailing.

And, it's Friday!  See, there's a certain synergy to the title.

So, now that I've taken up half a blog with explaining why there wasn't a blog (I went how long between posts?  I shouldn't have to explain myself, but, guilt works like that.  You're welcome.  And, I'm sorry.  Again.  Wanna make out?  Again?), I feel I should at least give a little run-down on that which I had teased in this space a week ago.

But then, what's the point?  Remember a few years ago when some Biblically-minded chap went through and calculated when Jesus was supposed to return in glory to judge the living and the dead, Homer-style?  But the guy forgot to mail Jesus the invite, and so the Son of God never showed up?  Rude.  On the guy's part.  Not on Jesus' side.  He can't RSVP if he never got the Save-the-Date card.

Oh, and remember when the world was supposed to end on my birthday a couple of years ago, with hellfire and brimstone and the sky falling and all that rot?  Well, yeah, it didn't, and the loans I took out of my 401K in order to really celebrate my birthday--think android wang, Russian prostitutes and monkey waiters, complete with the mini tuxedos--are demanding to be repaid.  Fuck.

Anyway, we're in one of those end times again.  Tomorrow, in case you didn't realize it, is the scheduled date of Ragnarok, which is the Norse version of Armageddon (that bears quite the uncanny resemblance to Armageddon, if you've read Revelation or had it shoved down your throat throughout your childhood).  I can see I just ruined the closing ceremonies of the Winter Olympics for you.  Many regrets.

If you're unfamiliar with Ragnarok (aside from the kickass sword from Final Fantasy III/VI), there will be a clash among the gods the likes of which we've never seen before (I wonder why...) and probably won't see again.  Because we'll be dead.  All of us.  Including most of the gods.

Everything starts because Loki busts out of his prison and rallies an army of the dead in Helheim, which is the realm of the dead.  The overseer of Helheim is Hel, who is, coincidentally, Loki's daughter.  As is Jorgmandr, the world serpent that will rise from the depths of the ocean and who will eventually poison Thor during the battle.  The Dark Elves, the Fire Giants, the Frost Giants and the Dwarves will all be involved, along with Odin's army of warriors that have been feasting, fighting, fucking and generally getting rowdy up in Valhalla for all these centuries.  It will be quite the throw down, to be sure.  Get your popcorn, kids.

Just don't plan on sitting through all of it.  Humanity is wiped out during the course of the fighting.  I guess epic battles between all-powerful celestial beings will do that to a species.  Curse these weak and spongy bags of flesh we call bodies!!!  Only when the world is reborn after all the fighting and Magni and Modi--Thor's sons--are walking through a field of green will they find two sleeping humans--a man and a woman--who will repopulate the Earth.  The rest of us?  Compost.

If there's anything that will help to calm your end-of-the-world fears, it's that Ragnarok was supposed to be preceded by the Fimbulwinter, which was a terrible winter that would bury much of the world in snow, ice and cold and would last for three years.  And, as everyone knows, we've all had a terrifically mild winter this year, so there's nothing to worry about (if you're reading this from Europe, just play along).

So, bust the seal out of a box of wine tonight, sit back, turn on the news, and watch as the cameras roll while one-handed Tyr and the giant Fenrir wolf duke it out.  You've been fairly warned; if it seems like the sun and the moon have been devoured by giant, celestial wolves, don't come crying to me.  I'll just tell you that I told you so.

Now, Don't Get Me Wrong

It occurred to me that some might misinterpret my post from Monday, the one wherein I was taunting and making fun of the local weather forecasters and their inability to get anything right. I was just making fun of those who cast their lots with oracle bones and tea leaves...or satellites and thirty-year statistical averages. Actually, for the weather shamans around here, oracle bones and tea leaves might be a step up.

Here's the thing, though: while I enjoy taunting the weather people about how much snow we would get and how cold it is, I really love this weather. I like cold weather. I love the bracing burn of the cold air on your cheeks in the morning (either set) when you step from the cozy warmth of the house...or the temperature comfort of my house (*grumbles something indecent about insulation codes in the early 80s*).

Granted, I did live in one of the snowier parts of America for four years, which might lend itself to why I love this time of year so much. Although, one year we got 48 inches of snow in December. That may have been a little too much. I'm a tall man, but 48 inches of snow is well past the bottom of my scroat, and that's the cut-off level for tolerance in my world.

So, naturally, this past weekend when it was snowing, it was awesome. For one, I love the snow. For twosies, it doesn't snow too much down here in North By God Carolina. And for threesies, the snow makes my friend, JoeZone, cry. Not that I like seeing Joe cry; the snow just makes me think of his sadness and how I can tease him about it on Monday.

>However, as much as I enjoy the snow, the cold, the gloomy, overcast skies, there are two other things that I enjoy more than anything about this time of year:

Tight sweaters and knee-high fuck-me boots.

Don't Laugh at My Shame!

Since it got cold last night...cold enough to counteract the colligative affect imparted by the brine/salt mixture thrown on the roads yesterday...everything froze up nice and solid. Therefore, the roads and such were too hazardous during the usual morning crush and my employer delayed opening by two hours.

Have I mentioned how much I fricking love my job?

It was so effing nice to by able to lay in bed this morning until 8:30 with the sultry breath of a half-naked redhead on the back of my neck. Yes, even when she's sighing at me over a lousy pun or pissed because I ate the last chocolate cookie, it's sultry. Most everything a redhead does is inherently sultry.

Still, when I finally rolled out of the house this morning at 9:15, it was 24 degrees F. And I shivered.

There used to be a time in my life when I would look 24 in the eye, whip my junk out, and wave it tauntingly at Old Man Winter. Six years of living in the South (just the South...not the Deep South) has softened me to marshmallow consistency. Much below 30 and I'm a quivering mass of jelly that doesn't want a thing to do with the outdoors. Unless there's nekkid chicks, but since most of them are marshmallow soft, too, that doesn't happen too often.

The first winter that we were married, back around the turn of the century, my wife and I came down to Charlotte to spend a week with her parents around the Christmas holiday. We had just left behind 48 inches of snow in South Bend from the blizzard that had hit us about two weeks prior (I think the blizzard dumped 24-28 inches on us, but that particular December had seen 48 inches of snow) and while it was cold in Charlotte, it wasn't as cold as it was in South Bend.

One day during the break, we went to one of the malls in Charlotte, and I was decked out in my winter attire. However, that day it got up to almost 40, and I was dying. I finally stripped down to just a t-shirt and my jeans and was finally comfortable. I remember steam coming off my head when I took my sock-cap off. It was sweet relief. Besides that, a steaming head is badass.

Now, the thought of a t-shirt in 40 degree weather sends chills throughout my body. I think my feet got colder just thinking about it.

That, however, was not the least I've ever worn on a winter's day. When I was in my first semester at ND, I was living alone in an apartment about two miles from campus. It was pleasant enough, though my neighbors were rather...sketchy...to say the least. One night, though, I decided I was going to do some laundry, so I spent the afternoon carting my stuff back and forth from my place to the community laundry room. It was mildly annoying, but I figured the walking was good for me. As I was putting my last load of clothes in, the washer wasn't completely full, so I figured I'd man-worn my jeans enough and stripped them off right there and tossed them in the wash. I gathered up my stuff and walked back to my apartment to find that I had thrown the lock on the way out.

With my keys still in the apartment.

And my pants in the wash.

I tried my best to kick or bash the door in but--remember the neighborhood was sketchy--the lock was pretty strong. While I felt safer that I wasn't going to be murdered in my sleep anytime soon, I was not looking forward to weathering the night on the floor in front of my door until the maintenance guys came to work the next morning. It was $20 if you had to call them after hours to let you in. I had no cash in my wallet, which was also inside the apartment.

I realized that there was one thing I would have to do. Some of my friends were having a little dinner party at a friend's apartment near campus. I opted for laundry and watching the Indiana/Ohio State game that night instead of the party, but I was planning on showing up for movie time. However, I knew that my only hope now rested in crashing the party.

I did have my shoes on, which was a damned good thing since there was 8 inches of snow on the ground. So, I set down my laundry basket (which was full of towels and other non-pants items) and, in my underwear, started walking to campus. From time to time, I would get cold enough that I would start running, but running in the cold night air when you're an asthmatic is not conducive to breathing. I would run as far as I could until I had to stop and walk. My lungs burned with inflammation; my skin burned with the cold; my humility just burned.

Now, I've never had a problem with being less than fully-clad, we'll say, much to the chagrin of most everyone in the world. However, I do take issue with being in just my undies while it's somewhere around 15-20 degrees.

I learned that night that South Bend cops could give a fuck less about your needs when they have their sights set on Nick's Patio, the local greasy spoon. What, stop and help the guy who is running in his underwear and waving his arms and gesticulating madly for me to help him, when there's biscuits and gravy that I could be shoving in my gob? You're on your own, fatboy. You could probably use the exercise, anyway.
So, I showed up at the party in my underwear and a t-shirt. I'll just toss in here that the dinner party-goers...all women. Except for my friend Jeff, one of the few Red Sox fans not named Karp that I can stand.

Here's my soliloquy that I gave when I got to the door, somewhat sweaty and panting:

"I locked myself out while doing laundry." *pant pant* "Don't ask." *pant pant* "Can I borrow $20 from someone?" *pant pant wheeze* "I'll pay you back." *pant pant wheeze wheeze* "If you're not watching anything, can I watch the Indiana game?" *wheeze*

Priorities.

Fortunately, after they ate and before we started the movie, Jeff lent me the cash and drove my sorry ass back to my apartment and hung out while I waited for the maintenance guy to show up...who lived in the next apartment building over. Fuck him. Having secured some pants and a warmer shirt, I returned to the party and watched Office Space. A couple of the ladies felt sorry for me and huddled/cuddled up to me to keep me warm.

That was the night I triumphed over Old Man Winter, not only successfully braving the cold and snow, but also I got cuddled on by a couple of reasonably attractive ladies to help "warm me up."

These days, though, I'll just take the ladies.