The Storm of the Century

No hype! Not a dream (or nightmare, more like)! Not an imaginary story!

Just a huge slathering of ice, followed by ten inches of snow, frigid temperatures, and finally many, many, MANY curse words.

The worst storm in thirty years, the weather shut down all of Kansas City. It took us at least two days to dig our way out of the driveway.

And it took me seven different attempts to shovel the drive. I ain't the young, in-shape whippersnapper I used to be.

Two out of three of our dogs are short, becoming engulfed by the snow when they go out. So I've had to shovel some of the yard. The yard for crying out loud!

It doesn't help that the older I get, the colder I get. I put on so many layers that I look like Ralphie's younger brother in A Christmas Story. My younger brother agrees with my assessment of the weather as well.

"This is the coldest winter ever," he says repeatedly, shivering in his old guy clothes.

What really gets me are the people who are downright giddy about the storm. "It's pretty" or "I LOVE snow" or "I wish it would snow all the time."

I just don't get it. And if they continue to say those dumb things around me, I'm well within my rights to punch them in the neck. Any court around the country would find my act justified.

What really, truly gets my dander up (whatever a dander is) are the climate change deniers. All you have to do is look at all the awful weather-related storms and tragedies people have weathered (see what I did there?) over the past year.

So where do we move to where we don't have to deal with snow and ice? Can't go to Florida; too many hurricanes and crazy politicians. And now L.A.'s out because it's on fire.

Maybe Arizona...but that would probably be a hard sell for my wife because of all the spiders.

Ah well, if you can't beat the weather, join 'em! Because in one of my most popular books, Dread and Breakfast, the suspense, thrills, and chills all take place during a very bad winter storm in the Midwest. Why, it's practically downright autobiographical!

Maple Avenue Freeze-Out!

Two nights before Christmas in Kansas and I'm sitting here writing this post bundled up like Ralphie's brother in the film, A Christmas Story. 

It's nine degrees below zero outside. Snow is on the ground and isn't going anywhere. The windchill is negative 27 or some other ungodly number. The coldest night we've experienced in years. And our furnace decided to conk out this afternoon.

Merrrrrrry Christmas! 

At least to our HVAC guy who will be collecting a huge, Christmas bonus check ("Why, thank you guys! It's a Christmas miracle! For only $399.99 extra, I can vacuum your coils. No extra charge over the initial $399.99. My treat!") 

Whenever or if he should decide to come out, that is. They're pretty busy right now.

I should've heeded my earlier Christmas haunting. Several hours ago, I had gone into the basement (can't remember why) and swore I heard the furnace singing various Christmas carols via an angelic choir. I thought..."Whoa...time to start drinking," and wrote it off to my typical nuttiness.

Word to the wise: ALWAYS heed your Christmas hauntings.

After some consideration, I told my wife, "Baby, it's cold inside."

She poo-poohed me, didn't believe me, knowing that I run a lot colder than her as usual, just par for the course.

So I stole a peek at the thermostat. Good Lawd, it read 64 degrees! And it had been set at 70. Something was up. Definitely NOT the temperature.

"Honey, we got a problem," I bellowed like a dying dinosaur during the Ice Age.

In the basement, we approached the furnace, pressed buttons, pushed gadgets, twisted knobs, fiddled with ding-dongs, and prayed a little bit we wouldn't blow ourselves up. Finally my wife said, "Huh. I think we have a problem."

Time for a brewski. Snikt!...Tsssss...

The call was in. The soonest the HVAC tyrants could get somebody out here was tomorrow morning. No particular time, natch. "But...but...," I whined, "we have like a bi-annual subscription with them to check our junk out. We're preferred customers!"

The answer to that was...too bad. With space heaters blasting, the thermostat now read 58 degrees in the house.

Alcohol is my friend.

"That'll just make you colder," said my common-sense wife.

No fan of common sense, I devised a plan (okay, my wife mostly devised it, but I was there!). Not only did we worry about our own freezability, but we had two dogs that I didn't care to see turned into pupsicles. Hell, they didn't even want to go out this morning (or all day). Can't blame them.

We pinpointed the warmest room in the house (and by that, I mean now reading a comfy 54 degrees), "Tom." (We named our two spare bedrooms "Tom" and "Jerry," much easier to remember than calling them by the pesky directions they face.) The plan was set and now onto the execution.

Alas, the damn futon never wants to work right, usually ending up in the two halves coming apart. Worse than any piece of furniture you might (un)assemble from Ikea. Finally, after many curse words and much back-ache and the ultimate worst possible fate (*gasp*), referring to the manual, we put it back together again.

(TO BE READ LIKE AN AIRPLANE PILOT): "Ahhhhh, now we're sitting at a cool 52 degrees....Uhhhhhh, you might want to consider bundling up, it's ahhhhhh gonna drop to the single digits in your room....ummmmmm...your stewardess is coming by with the cocktail cart, so please be sure and...errrrrrrr...tip."

Pass the wine.

Our electric blanket was stripped from our bed upstairs and moved down to "Tom." Another electric blanket was put on the floor, dog beds atop it.

At 50 degrees, I swear I can see my breath. Merrrrrrrry Christmas!

My wife says, "Get over it. Pretend it's like winter camping."

This...

This was the craziest thing I'd heard in a while. Anyone who knows me totally understands I don't camp. Especially in the Winter. I'm not insane. My idea of camping is a cabin (not too far from a bar and convenience store and pizza delivery) with WiFi and a hot tub.

Where the hell's that bottle of wine? Merci Chrimmy.

In the pursuit of true journalism, never leaving my dedicated readers in the lurch, I'm now sitting in a frigid living room (temperature now in the 40's), delivering the truth with frozen, unfeeling fingers and a head full of alcohol.

Mister Chriminee everbuddy!

Layering 101

Whoever would've thought the process of layering could be so complex?

I'm not talking about layers in writing or something pretentious like that. I'm not even talking about the multi-faceted layers of lasagna. Or cake. (Although, both sound kinda good right about now.)

The layering I'm referencing is clothing. Here in the awful Midwest, I've learned the fine art of layering during our bitter Winters. Or at least I thought I had until during the holidays when I was properly schooled by my wife and mother-in-law.

"Your under-layers are too loose and make you look frumpy," said my wife.

Put on defensive, I shot back, "Do not!"

My mother-in-law agreed with a nod. "The under-layers need to fit snugly so they don't bulk things up."

Since I'm already somewhat bulky, I took this advice to heart. With an exception. "I dunno...I already feel like a tightly packed sausage in a casing. Making everything even tighter is gonna be suffocating." I looked to my father-in-law for help, but he'd kinda already written us off with an eye-roll.

"That's because you have too many layers," said my wife.

"Well, yeah, I can think of...let's see..." Never a math whiz, I brought out my trusty abacus: my fingers. "I've got... six layers."

"You don't have six layers," my wife scoffed.

"Yes, I do! I have muscle, fat, my skin--"

"Not layers!"

"Sure they are," I insisted. "Then there's my T-shirt--"

"Well, that's one you can get rid of."

"But...but...you're the one who told me in the first place I should wear a T-shirt year round!" 

"That's a man thing," said my mother-in-law. "Every guy has to wear their T-shirt."

"Because my wife said I should!" I meant to sound defensive and strong, but with that argument, it admittedly came off about as confident as deciding between Horsey Sauce and Ketchup at Arbees.

"Yes, but you shouldn't sleep in it because it captures body sweat and causes problems with sleep," said my wife.

"That's not the point. The point is...was...um..." I got up for the longest coffee break in history. I knew I was outnumbered. Besides, I couldn't remember what the point of my argument was.

So, yeah, layers. I'm not a fan. But the older I get, the colder I get, and the more layers I add. This Winter, I've added turtlenecks (turtlenecks, for God's sake!) to my wardrobe of necessity. Right above the long underwear, perhaps the sexiest of all undergarments.

Except...not.

I mean, is it any wonder that sex is more popular in the warmer seasons than the dead of Winter? Not only do you have to disrobe about four layers of clothing and jump into bed before you freeze, but by the time you're both flashing your long underwear, any romantic notions kinda have taken a down-shift (if you know what I mean).

This has been a public service announcement.

Speaking of public service, it's my duty as a stolid citizen to present to you the truth behind Corporate America. I'm speaking, of course, of Corporate Wolf, a true, blistering expose of what really goes on inside the cubicles of drones. You're welcome!

Snowmageddapocalypse!

Devoured by Winter!

I know it sounds like a new Sy-Fy movie starring Beverly Hills 90102 refugees, but Snowmageddapocalypse's here, folks, and it's happening. And by its fierceness, it appears to be damn proud of it. Get used to it!

Eat it, Winter.

As much as I'd like to blame President Trump for this one, he gets a rare pass from me. It's all about global warming. (Wait, has Trump accepted global warming as a reality yet? Or does that reside with Santa Claus, kindness, and Meryl Streep as a good actress in his bed-side fairy tale book?)

I 'spose I shouldn't be so harsh on global warming. Last year, we were (short-term) blessed with a relatively calm winter. This year? Like Forrest's box of chocolates, you just never know what yore gonna get.

A week ago, from morning 'til mid-afternoon, I was jazzed by the weather, had to change into a lighter jacket, had the friggin' window down. If I had hair, it would've been blowing back  to the songs of Bruce Springsteen as I drove down the highway. (What? I'm old!).

Hours later, winter had a change of mind. Six inches of snow dropped in a matter of hours. That was round one of the three installment storm.

Grudgingly, I trawled outside, started shoveling. My back screamed, I nearly fell several times. Panting, I had to take several breaks (thankfully, not a hip), a first. You know, where were all those enterprising kids who used to constantly hassle me about shoveling my drive for $5? Although, come to think of it, I believe back in my youth I just let the snow ride until nature took care of it. Now, of course, those kids are nowhere to be found. Could be I chased 'em off one time to many ("You dumb kids get offa my lawn!").

Regardless, eight hours later, I had to clear the driveway again.

It's getting kinda old. As we jumped in our car during single digit temperatures, I told my wife "this weather's for the birds." She said, "no, no, they don't like it either." She had a point. I mean one snowstorm is pretty. Two is weary acceptance. Third time causes cursing and indignant fury and day drinking and wanting to fly South.

I think I'm gonna shoot that stupid groundhog (hey, it's Kansas; even priests carry guns). I guarantee he'll never see another shadow.

Snow's one thing. But the ice? That's a whole different monster.  Driving on it's about as impossible as arguing with someone on social media: you can't see them and they're impossible to negotiate.

Part of the horrific weather is due to the Midwest. We've come to expect rough winters. But nothing like this. I dread how much worse it'll get in upcoming years.

Guess we'll find out in...Snowmageddapocalypse II (starring Ian Ziering and Paris Hilton as the brilliant astro-physicist/metereologist.)

Speaking of horrible snowstorms, did you guys hear about the storm that forced various serial killers, an abusive husband, a hit man, a couple of gangsters, a runaway wife, and her daughter to take refuge in a very spooky and mysterious bed and breakfast? No? Well, what're you waiting for? It'll warm you up while chilling your blood: Dread and Breakfast.

The Flappening

No, not a new M. Knight Shyamalan film (but my following anecdote's still more thrilling than "The Happening"), this true tale of horror actually happened. And it can happen to YOU, too. Beware...

It's been so stupid cold in Kansas lately. So cold it would make a gang of street-tough penguins roll a polar bear for its coat.

My wife and I are bundling, layering (I vow to no longer make fun of long underwear), and snuggling.

The other night I disrobed and jumped into bed. Pulled those blankies up tight to my chin. My wife soon followed and, in the process, yanked the blankets from beneath my chin.

"Dang, honey, cut it out! I'm freezing," I screamed like a slasher movie victim.

"I know," she said, "it's the worst. But, you know what's even worse?"

I thought about it. Couldn't come up with an answer. "No, what could possibly be worse?"

"When you come to bed late, and I'm almost asleep, you flap the covers," she said.

Well, first of all, I don't flap. Flapping is what the aforementioned penguins do. Or my mom when she's angry at a store clerk. Me? I don't flap. Second, of course, the only other reason for a good, hearty blanket-flapping is the Ernest Borgnine-validated "Dutch Oven." I'm not gonna explain it here, look it up. (Hey George Foreman has his grill, Ernie used his device to torture Ethel Merman, the reason his marriage to her ended in 32 days). Finally, sheesh, how bad could a sheet flapping be? Hyperbole much? I mean, really.

"C'mon," I said, "even if I do flap, it can't be that horrible."

"Oh, really?" She picked up the blankets and started flapping them.

It truly was terrible.

"Gah! Okay, okay, stop! I give up! Cut it out!"

She said, "It's awful, right? It's like someone turned a fan on beneath the sheets."

Sigh. As usual, she was right. It felt like a harsh breath blasted from Mother Winter's lips.

People, don't let this happen to you. I've got an eye on my future flapphishness. Winter is hell.

Speaking of hellish winters, you probably might want to stay clear of the Dandy Drop Inn (essayed in my historical documentation, Dread and Breakfast), where there's a mean storm a'brewin'. Checking in's easy. Checking out only happens in the six feet under sorta way. (Cash or check only, please).