Shock the Monkey, Part 1

So we woke up on a Thursday, startled to discover that the morning light creeping in the windows was far brighter than it should have been. First of all, I’m not a morning person, so the mere intrusion of the light was bad enough. I’m never mentally prepared for this daily slap in the face. But when the slap has an extra helping of retina-piercing whiteness, you know something is wrong with the world.

I lay there in the bed, refusing to move or accept the fact that it was time to get up. I would have willingly promised anything to anyone for just five more minutes of slumber.

Just above said bed is a very wide but not very tall window. I’m sure this particular window design has some type of name, but I don’t know that term might be. What I do know is that it’s difficult as hell to find curtains to fit this opening. Over the years, we’ve had to be very creative in our choice of window treatment options. Some ideas are okay, others have failed miserably. Even with my usually-trustworthy gay genes, I have not satisfactorily conquered this damn portal to the world.

I also know that our cat, Scotch, is fascinated with this window and lives for the act of jumping up on the window sill at the crack of dawn, and then pulling the curtain back so that even more light spills onto my hissing, non-impressed body. (I’m totally in agreement with vampires on this bit of business. Daylight kills.) On this particular morning, Scotch was especially exuberant in his ritual, ripping the curtain as far open as he could, flooding the room with light.

That oddly-bright light. What was up with THAT?

I sighed. Then I made the painful flop and roll to my left so that I could look at the alarm clock. I always perform this action while praying to any listening God that I had somehow awakened early, and could therefore pass back out for at least a few more minutes. Most of the time, of course, my dreams are shattered. In fact, I’m usually already way late and have to scramble, tearing through the house in a mad frenzy.

But THIS morning, I had time to spare. In fact, it was considerably early, miles to go before I had to weep about rejoining the human race. So where was all the extra whiteness coming from? Why was I being forced to THINK before I’d even had coffee? This is a cruel and vicious.

I finally throw back the blankets and stagger out of bed. As is typical, Scotch has leapt down from the window sill and is now perched by the side of the bed, awaiting praise for his skillful manipulation of the weird-window curtain. As is also typical, I’m not yet to the point of complete body control, and one of my renegade feet stomps squarely on his tail. Screeching ensues, followed by a feline thunder run to the other end of the house.

Why do cats do that? Why do they get right up under your feet, positioning themselves in the exact spot where the possibility of pain is at its prime? I don’t get that. You would think, especially after several years, that a cat would learn certain things, such as “don’t get too close to Daddy when he’s getting out of bed”. But no, he’s right there underfoot, painful stomping occurs, and then we have drama.

As Scotch takes out his anger in another room by ripping an innocent rug to shreds, I turn toward the weird window and gaze outside. My eyes blink open in surprise as I realize that the front yard is completely covered in snow. What the hell?

This is Texas. We don’t get snow. Okay, we DO, but not like everybody else. We get just a mere dusting of the white stuff and the entire state shuts down, with everything cancelled. (Except for football games. You must have football games in Texas. Otherwise, the state will wither up and die. It’s in the Constitution.)

So for me to be viewing a front yard that is completely covered in snow, with no tufts of dead grass showing whatsoever, it’s a clear sign that something major, indeed, is taking place. The world has shifted on its axis. “Holy cow,” I mutter primitively, because it’s still early and my brain is not fully engaged.

Scotch peeks around the corner of the bedroom doorway, his curiosity piqued by my exclamation. Is Daddy proud of his handiwork with the curtain? Did Scotch do good? He slinks into the room, in search of a tasty reward of some kind, just as I am stomping out of the room on the way to my office. As usual, I’m not really paying attention, and once again there is unexpected abuse of his freakishly-long tail, followed by more angry shredding of an innocent rug.

I race into the office and sign into my work laptop, an action that I avoid as long as possible on a regular day. Once I’m hooked into the buzzing network of the behemoth corporation where I toil, I kick off the chat application and immediately start pinging my co-workers. What’s going on? Who drove into work and who didn’t? How bad is it? Tell me!

My eyes continue to widen as the field reports start filling my screen. Nobody in our group has made it to the office yet, although some are trying. Travel advisories are being posted and the schools might be cancelled. That’s all I need to see. I’m not leaving this house any time soon. I get to work from home today. Hurray!

Nothing thrills me more than not having to go into the office. It’s just a beating, having to find something decent to wear, fighting the crazed Dallas traffic for over an hour, and then dealing with certain co-workers that make me want to claw my face. Besides, it’s a proven fact that I get a lot more work done when I’m still in my jammie pants.

So now I’m actually in a good mood, dancing around the house as I put on the coffee and search for a few nibbly things to munch on (working from home means you get to snack all day, another bonus). I praise the fat, wet flakes falling from the sky, thanking them for this lovely gift of non-travel.

Then Terry walks into the room, looking very sad and requiring my attention. He HAS to drive into the office, since his company believes you must be visible to be productive. I discreetly turn my happy dance into something less obnoxious, and offer my sympathies. I know better than to make a big deal out of my less-restrictive work structure, because this will only lead to tension and turmoil in the relationship.

After some supportive commentary and counseling, we eventually get him bundled up and headed out into the snowfall. As soon as I can no longer see his car through the thick curtain of flakes showering the road, I’m once again running all over the house, belting out 70’s songs while sliding across the wood floors in my socks. Scotch the cat wisely remains hidden during these festivities, because my dangerous feet are moving too quickly for proper tail management and protection.

And thus goes the day, with me being amazingly productive simply because I’m not sitting in a cubicle with an attitude about having to sit in a cubicle. From time to time, I stand at one of the windows and admire the snowfall. When you don’t have to be out IN it, snow is really pretty.

Then, around noon, I start to get a little concerned about this pretty snow. Because it’s not stopping. It hasn’t stopped for hours. There’s already a good four or five inches on the back patio table. If anything, it’s snowing even harder. Something’s not right. It never snows this much in Dallas.

I call Terry in his office. “What’s going on, what are you hearing, how are the roads, have you seen the weather reports, where’d you put that new Madonna CD?"

Terry patiently waits for me to take a breath, then: “It’s getting bad. The roads were okay when I drove in, it wasn’t sticking yet, but now it is."

I glance out one of the front windows to confirm this. It’s doing more than just sticking to the road. You can’t really even tell where the road IS. “I think I better go to the grocery store."

Terry’s not sure why this is necessary. “I just WENT to the grocery store. We shouldn’t need anything."

“We need to stock up, what if we get trapped here for a while? What if we can‘t go anywhere?” (Nothing’s ever medium-range with me. It’s either complete boredom or mass hysteria.)

Terry sighs. “But we HAVE food. And this isn’t a blizzard. This is not ‘Little House on the Prairie’ where Pa has to save the cows."

As usual, I’m not really listening to him, instead rummaging through the pantry and the refrigerator, checking the inventory. “There’s got to be something we need. Oh my GOD! We’re almost out of mayo. See?"

He grudgingly remembers something else. “Oh, and onions. We need onions for the beans I was going to put on.” Then he gets more into the spirit of things. (Food shopping is fun! Even if it‘s pointless. In actuality, we have enough food around the house to last until summer.) “And if I take a personal day tomorrow, I could make breakfast. Grab some eggs, too."

I am officially on a mission. I’d better get going.

Sadly, I check the work laptop and discover that the chat application is lit up like brake lights during rush-hour traffic. Not a good sign. I quickly realize that a major impromptu conference call is going on, and I’d better get my ass on there.

Conference calls make me insane, especially calls where some High Priestess has deemed that every department in the company must be represented, even if your organization has nothing to do with the issue at hand. These things take forever. The roll-call alone is at least thirty minutes as people deal with unfamiliar mute buttons, dying cell phones and the inevitable moron who lets his dog bark in the background throughout the entire call.

By the time I finally escape from THAT crap, it’s three in the afternoon. The patio table snow gauge is showing at least seven inches, and the still-falling flakes are bigger than ever. This is insane. I ping my work peeps that I need to hit the store real quick, I’ll be right back. Then I run jump in the car.
Little did I know that the doors of hell had just creaked open...




Click Here to Read the Next Entry in This Series.

10 Reasons Why Idiots Should Never Drive in the Snow

1. Idiots don’t know what snow is.


Seriously, there are folks out there who are completely mystified by the white stuff falling from the sky. They have no idea what it might be. And they certainly don’t realize that the weird rain can actually stick to things and accumulate. Therefore, they don’t adjust their driving patterns in any way.


Initially, this stupidity makes these dimwits some of the most dangerous creatures on the road during snow or ice storms. They just keep driving like they’ve always driven, hurtling through red lights, paying no attention to lane dividers or other cars, and racing along at speeds that can result in space flight if they hit a pothole just right.


Luckily, because they have no adaptive instincts, these losers are generally the first to hit a patch of ice and plummet into a ditch, their faces registering uncomprehending surprise when they realize that their vehicle is no longer moving. (It can take a while for this awareness to stimulate one of their three brain cells into some type of reaction, so there’s considerable downtime before they get out of the car.) But at least they are now off the road.


2. Idiots ignore the six-inch layer cake on top of their car.

Folks, you need to get that snow off your car before you get in and drive anywhere. That snow is not going to remain in place just because you’re ignoring it and can no longer see it, once you figure out how to close the door and turn on the car. It’s going to come crashing down at some point, most likely at a very inopportune time.

But the idiots don’t listen, driving around like a herd of angel food treats have been let loose on the city. This is a ticking bomb, with shock and awe just around the corner, because the rising heat in the car is going to start melting that snow a wee bit. One of three things is now going to happen.

The snow is going to slide forward while they’re zipping down the road, most likely at a moment when they are already distracted by cell-phone usage and/or the triple burger they are trying to cram in their mouths while driving. The snow will completely cover the front windshield, resulting in total loss of visibility. Typically, it will take the idiot at least three minutes to realize that they can’t see where they’re going.

Once it becomes fuzzily clear that something is not right, the idiot will then go into total responsive failure. Instead of gently applying the brakes, they ignore the brakes completely (for once, see below). Rather, they grasp the steering wheel and start jerking it to the right and the left, as if they just need to find the right street where the snow monster doesn’t live. This, of course, causes the car to swerve all over the road and endanger the lives of everyone in a two-block radius. The only thing that will stop this madness is another handy ditch or perhaps a sturdy light pole.

The cake MAY survive long enough until the idiot is slowing down at an intersection, with the snow tumbling forward when the car comes to a stop. In this case, at least, the danger to nearby cars and buildings is minimized. Instead, we have the idiot finally clamoring out of the car (um, you have to UNLOCK the door first, that’s why it won’t open, Einstein) and then just standing there, wondering what they should do now. The idea that perhaps they should scrape the snow OFF the windshield will not occur to them until they have held up traffic for at least half an hour.

The final potential fate of the cake is that the idiot will gain enough speed on the slickened road that the snow will blow off the back of the car, becoming angry warheads that slam into the cars behind the idiot. These innocent victims now have to deal with the idiot residue, yet another example of useless people expecting the decent citizens of society to clean up after them. A Snowcial Welfare Policy, if you will.

3. Idiots think that stomping on the brake will solve everything.

Anyone who has at least minimal skills when it comes to driving in the snow is fully aware that the brake pedal is not necessarily your friend. It must be used cautiously, with little taps here and there to correct your course. You do NOT jump on the brake with both feet every time your vehicle starts to slide a little bit.

Idiots don’t get this. When it’s not snowing, they never use the brake. They fly through intersections hours after the light has turned red. They are unable to slow down while navigating school zones, rocketing through and sending little Janie and Johnny running for their lives. They are the people responsible for those mysterious “Guardrail Damage Ahead” signs that you pass on the highway, causing you to wonder just who in the hell managed to hit THAT. Idiots hit it, because they can’t remember what the brake is for when the sun is shining.

But slap a little bit of ice on the pavement, and some internal mutant gene is triggered within idiots across the land, making them pound on the brake every seven seconds. This, of course, results in the idiots spinning out of control and subsequently shutting down entire road systems with a 38-car pileup.

(And these idiots always end up on the local news, shaming the nation with their brain-dead logic, limited vocabulary, and inability to realize that they are NOT a celebrity because a microphone is shoved in their face. “What happened was, I diddun know they was ice. And the DEVIL took my car and drove it in the taco hut . And I lost my crack pipe. Hey, you want some a dese kids? I got extry. I ain‘t named sum of dem yet.”)

4. Idiots have no concept of a “rolling stop”.

When the roads are covered in six inches of ice, and your car barely has any traction, you need to keep moving if at all possible. Coming to a complete stop is utter madness. You don’t do it. Especially if you’re at some pitiful 4-way stop in a residential neighborhood where nobody cares what the hell you do anyway.

But no, the idiots will slam to a halt before they even get to the intersection. And then they get stuck, wheels spinning, and they are unable to get any forward momentum, the rear of the car eventually sliding to one side as the tires whiz around pointlessly. Now they are blocking the entire road. Which means YOU have to stop, and lose your traction as well. This is one of those times when I firmly believe that mercy killing is a fine and beautiful thing.

5. Idiots don’t understand that steep hills should be avoided.

Mr. Idiot, before you attempt to climb that Matterhorn before you, let me explain a few things. I know you won’t listen to me, but I’m going to try anyway, so that I can have a clear conscience when I slap your worthless ass when all is said and done.

Notice, as you gaze up that awe-inspiring ski run, that many before you have tried to attempt the same maneuver that you are contemplating. They did not succeed. That is why there are so many cars piled up at the base of the hill, the vehicles pointed in every direction except a natural one. This is something that should not be attempted. You are NOT going to make it.

But no, you think that you have some special magic that will allow you to succeed where others have failed. This misconception strikes to the bone of why you have been classified as an idiot. You actually believe that your cheap-ass discount piece of crap, with the hamster-wheel engine and the bicycle tires, can get further up the hill than that Hummer over there with the disillusioned yuppie driver who is currently crying into his low-fat latte because his axle busted when it jumped the curb while rolling backwards.

Good luck with that.

6. Idiots don’t prepare for possible travel-by-foot across the tundra.

It’s freezing cold. There’s snow and ice everywhere. And yet you have chosen to get in your vehicle and drive around the city in search of something meaningless that you don’t really need. In making this decision, one would think that you would select adequate clothing options. But you don’t. You throw on a tube top and some stiletto heels, apparently your native dress, and then you hop in the car.

Next thing you know, you’ve slammed into the side of the local Dairy Queen because you were texting one of your idiot friends about the latest music video from your favorite band, The Gonad Banjo. Now you must get out of the car and seek shelter, but you are unable to do so because your pointy heels lock into the ice and your tube top instantly freezes and shatters. My thoughts? You might as well just lay down and become a speed bump for the drive-thru, because your value as a contributing member to society has just expired.

7. Idiots rarely have the proper amount of car insurance, despite laws requiring them to have such.

I don’t think I need to say much more on this point. I’M the one that has to pay for repairs because YOU hit ME without proper protection? I don’t think so. I will hunt your ass down and hock the pink flamingos in your yard if it comes to that.

8. Idiots travel in packs.

It’s never a single idiot behind the wheel of an obnoxious car that is swerving all over the road, knocking out mailboxes and postal delivery people. It’s a cast of thousands, all of them crammed into a space that normally would only hold four people. Why do you have to bring your entire posse with you just to get some burritos from Taco Bell? Leave some of your tribe at home so they can figure out what needs to be done with the frozen pipes that burst because you don’t understand what “freeze warning” really means.

9. Idiots get defensive when they are called idiots.

You can’t have a reasonable conversation with people who don’t understand that they are responsible for their own actions. They get obnoxiously belligerent when you point out their deficiencies. They think they are on the Jerry Springer show, and instantly resort to the head-bobbing and the weave-pulling and the inane concept that simply repeating the same clueless phrase over and over will somehow make it the gospel truth.

Repetition is not resolution. Pull your ignorant head out of your ignorant ass and get a lawyer. Now. Oh wait. Do you KNOW what a lawyer is? Because that word has two syllables, and I realize that we’re stretching intellectual boundaries here.

10. Idiots should not be allowed to procreate.

I realize this has nothing to do with snow travel. But really, isn’t this the elephant in the room? We wouldn’t HAVE any of the above nine issues if there was some type of enforced sterilization process in place. Please send an email to your congressional leaders. Make the stupid people go away, whatever it takes.

It’s the right thing to do.

Video Rewind: Sorority Girls From Hell

This one kills me every time. And yes, my college years were EXACTLY like this. In fact, if you look closely enough, I'm sure you can spot me in a couple of the frames. Enjoy. (And a big shout-out of love to Lois Bromfield. She really could see around corners and stuff...)






And a still shot, in case you need one, for sharing purposes and such...