(parenthetically speaking)

a random gal’s random thoughts about nothing and everything in general

Snow Day March 2, 2009

It snowed in Atlanta today. Lots. We’re talking accumulation here, people. snowy-atlanta

Snow reminds me of my childhood. Well, part of my childhood. When we lived in Pennsylvania. I was probably around 7 or 8. We lived in a small house at the top of a hill out away from the city (our address was Route 1). It was an idyllic little spot next door to a hay field (where we’d fly kites) and not far from a friend’s farm (they gave us a baby pig as a pet). In winter, we’d slide down our driveway on cookie sheets and use the shell of an old VW Bug as our fort during snowball fights. We’d eat cupfuls of fresh snow with chocolate syrup poured on top.


Man-Man checks out the snowy scene from the safety of the screened porch.

Snow’s fun when you’re a kid. As an adult, not so much. Sure, there are times when as a grownup snow is great. Like when you’re going skiing. Or it’s Sunday and you just want to snuggle up by the fire and eat chili and read a good book. It’s when you have to get out and drive in it that it becomes a problem. Or maybe that’s just because, since I was old enough to drive, I’ve never lived in a place where the drivers had any idea how to content with ice and snow. Like today, I heard siren after siren, the emergency vehicles whizzing to and fro to rescue Atlantans who don’t realize that when it comes to weather like this, the motto is, “With snow, go slow.”

Lucky for me, I don’t have to commute to work braving treacherous roadways packed with people who don’t have the slightest clue about how to drive in wintery conditions. I don’t have to bundle up in a coat, hat, gloves, and a scarf. I don’t have to scrap the ice and snow off my car and wait for the windows to defrost. I simply walk from one side of the house to the other, turn on my computer, and, voila, I’m ready to go.

Yup, snow’s great for kids. And the self-employed.


wardrobe malfunction January 23, 2009

Don’t ask me how I managed it. Because I honestly don’t know. I mean, I don’t think I could manage to re-create the scene even if I tried.

At work the other day, I somehow managed to get the collar of my shirt caught on the hook on the back of the bathroom stall door. And the more I tried to free myself, the more hopelessly attached to that damn door I seemed to be.

What’s worse was that it was like 5:40 and the whole mad dash for home had already started, so the number of potential rescuers was dwindling fast. Add to that the fact I didn’t have my office key on me either, so even if I managed to escape, there was a good chance that they had already closed the doors and I wouldn’t be able to get back into the office to get my purse and car keys. Locked out of the office because I got stuck in the crapper—it could only happen to me!

My only hope was that one of my female co-workers had a long commute and a small bladder and would have to make a pit stop at the bathroom before they left for the day. But even then, how humiliating to have to ask a co-worker—someone you see for 8 hours a day, 5 days a week and have to sit across the table from in meetings and stuff—for help freeing yourself from the toilet.

Luckily, I finally managed to twist and contort into the exact right position and was able to free my shirt from the door. And thankfully the office door was still open.

364834350_9f9a881816_m1This latest episode is just one of the many reasons I never buy nice clothes. I swear, no matter how careful I am, I’m always ripping a sleeve, breaking a zipper, losing a button. But mostly I either shrink things or stain things. I promise you there’s not one stitch of clothing in my closet that doesn’t have something wrong with it. So I’ve basically given up on trying to look presentable. And as a result, I have nightmares that any day now Stacy and Clinton from that show What Not to Wear are going to jump out and surprise me and tell me that someone has recommended me for a much-needed wardrobe makeover. To which I’ll respond, “Bring it on. Just don’t expect the clothes to last more than one wearing, because, as sure as the day is long, any new garments I get will surely suffer the same premature death.” Hmm, maybe that’s why they call those things we put our clothes on hangers, because they want to hang themselves after all the pain and suffering.