AUTHOR: Beth TITLE: Storm, Schmorm. DATE: 1/22/2005 11:21:00 PM ----- BODY:
Some are saying 20, some are saying 30, some were saying one to two, but those dimwits have now shut up. Inches, that is. Yes, a nor'easter has hit New England. In other news, Grant, we repeat, Grant, is buried in Grant's tomb. And hey, wouldn't you know, for the last few days it's been cold. Like, colder than Martha Stewart's left tit cold. Freeze-your-snots cold. Check your calendar. It's January. We live in Massachusetts. There's a reason I haven't posted about this before; it is not exactly breaking news. Or is it? Well, at any rate, being young and foolish, Tim and I had plans tonight to hang out, and being that we hadn't seen each other in about two weeks, no stupid blizzard or whatever was going to stop us. We went to my parents' house to change my laundry around (Yes, look at me, I am good! I go out in raging killer snowstorm to do laundry!), and were going to go to Payless to get Tim some boots to replace the shoddy pair he's been clomping around in, laceless, for oh...the past year or so (shhh.), but when we started seeing four wheel drive pickups fishtailing on main roads, we decided maybe new boots weren't worth risking our lives over. Because the longer we were out, the worse the snow would get, and being that we are young and foolish, we had plans to go get Chinese food, and no stupid blizzard or whatever was going to stop us. So, yeah, about five songs on the CD player later, we're inching laboriously around a curve, and the snow is making this kind of creaking noise under the tires: brrraaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaakkkk and National Guard plow type trucks are passing us with sprays of salt as if to say, LATA, SUCKAZ!, and we start thinking, okay. Just make it to Tim's house, because it's closest, and hopefully everything will work out from there. Because we still had plans to hang out tonight, dammit, and no stupid blizzard or whatever was going to stop us. So we did. We made it. Barely. We lurched my car into a parked position somewhere in the street area, sloshed through the drifts to the door, and I spent an inordinate amount of time being inordinately entertained by the squishing noises my boots made in the snow on his porch while Tim moved his car off the street, and then we went upstairs to his apartment to hang out, because it's not like I was going to have to build up a head of steam on my road, take the turn way too fast, slam my car into low gear, gun the accelerator, grit my teeth and pray to get up the driveway or anything. Except, yeah, it was like that. Anyway, so there Tim and I were. In his house at last. Staring at one another. Foodless. Locked in a screaming blizzard. There was only one thing to do. We called the pizza guy, and made him deliver. We're going to hell.
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