You won't believe what this cat does next

Dear Internet,

1. "This" is either a pronoun or a determiner.  As the former, it's often used at the end of a clause, as in "Look at this."  As the latter, it's usually used at the beginning of the clause, as in "This is interesting; consider reading it."  In no case is the word "this" meant to be used as a one-word sentence to indicate the writer's approval of or agreement with something.  If you want me to click on your link or like your post, then write "Look at this," or "This is interesting/funny/crazy; you should read it."  If you write simply "This," then I'm going to ignore whatever it is.*
2. "This is everything" is not an acceptable use of "this" as the determiner; accordingly, I'll also ignore anything prefaced by that sentence.*
3. I'll consider reading your top ten list or viewing your top 17 slide show.  There are rules, however.  If it's a list, then you have exactly one click.  The entire content of the list must be visible at the first click (if it's a long list, I'll allow a second page.) If it's a slide show, then you have exactly one click per entry/image.  I will bail out of any slide show that forces me to click once to see the image, then to click again to see the caption, then again to see additional description, then again to move on to the next image.  One click per entry.*
4. If I see "you won't believe what happens next" in the title or subtitle, then I'll take you at your word and will decline to click on the link at all.
5. Pick a platform.  Almost nothing is worthy of appearing on Facebook, Twitter, Snapchat, AND Instagram.  Each of those platforms has its own particular uses.  Determine the best medium for the message or image you want to share, and post accordingly.  If I already liked it on IG, then I probably don't want to see it on Facebook or Twitter.**

Well, that's all for now.  Hope all is well.  

Sincerely,

CDP

* Unless there are funny cats.  

** See previous note; in this case, however, they better be really funny cats. 

Lovely weather we're having

This is the proverbial calm before the proverbial storm.  I finally turned off the local news channel because I just couldn't bear to hear one more word about the potentially historic snowstorm that's bearing down on Washington, DC right now, nor about the very real possibility that we'll be snowbound and without power for days after the snow hits.  Right now, we're cozy and secure: The house is stocked with food and other essentials, schools are closed tomorrow, and there's a neat pile of recently chopped firewood right outside.  We'll be fine.

We get a fair amount of snow in DC, but the last (crippling, historic, catastrophic, fill-in-the-blank adjective) snowstorm that I can remember was in early 2010.  This is something I wrote the day after that storm.  I'm posting it again because we're nothing if not predictable, and it's very likely that some variation of this will play out on Saturday.  Snow is not the only thing we need shovels for. 

January 2010

I like snow as well as the next person, which is to say not much at all.  This is entirely too much snow. 

My husband loves me, and I love him.  This doesn't stop us, though, from engaging in frequent marital chop-busting.   There are variations.  Sometimes, it's event-specific, like after I received my fifth speed camera ticket in 2009*; or like when security man, who never stops nagging me about locking my car, went out and left the front door WIDE OPEN (an event which he denies any memory of, two years after it most assuredly took place.)  At other times, the busting of chops is focused on particular quirks.  I never answer my phone, and he'll interrupt anything to answer his.  I misplace things all the time, while he can engage in a lengthy conversation with me and then just minutes later, forget that the entire conversation took place.  Today, we went a few rounds of what I call situational chop-busting.  This is distinguished from event-specific chop busting in that it occurs during a recurring situation, such as putting up Christmas lights, or negotiating over playlists for a road trip.  Or shoveling snow.

My normal snow-shoveling method consists of standing at the kitchen window.  That's why I got married, I'll think to myself as I watch my husband shovel.  Today, however, there's really just too much snow for one person to handle.  So I put on my boots and jacket, picked up a shovel, and started to move snow with it.  How long do you suppose it took for him to begin offering helpful critiques of my shoveling technique?  If you guessed anything longer than 10 seconds, you're wrong.

"Hey hon?" he said.

Holy Mother of God, I thought.  Already?  He has a helpful snow-shoveling hint already?

"What?" I said, in what I hoped was a "don't start with me" voice.  By the way, I'm not sure why I even bother with the "don't start with me" voice, because it has no effect whatsoever on him.

"Try to move the snow to your right, not to your left.  See, that just adds more snow in back of your car, and I'm eventually going to have to shovel that out, too."

"Fine," I said, in what I felt was a very clear "shut the hell up" tone.  The "shut the hell up" tone, incidentally, is also lost on him.

Since we were trying to shovel out his truck, because that's the only thing we'll be able to drive in an emergency,  I thought that it would be wise to clean the truck off first, so that I could then shovel up the snow already on the ground along with the snow that I cleaned off the truck.  That's good thinking, right?  I thought so, too.

"Hon?"

Jesus Christ on the Cross, I thought.

"WHAT?"

"You should use the broom on my car.  Good idea to clean the truck off first, but you should use the broom."

"There's two fucking feet of snow on this truck," I said.  "Nothing but a shovel is going to make the slightest dent in this snow.  I'm not going to hurt your car."  I couldn't promise that I wouldn't assault him with the shovel, but I was very careful with the car.

He continued to shovel without further comment.  HA, I thought, I WIN! How long do you think his diplomatic silence lasted?  If you guessed any length of time longer than thirty seconds, you are wrong again.

"Hon?"

"WHAAAAAT????"  A blind and deaf person would have clearly discerned the "God help you if you say one more word" tone, but he missed it entirely.

"Don't you see where you're shoveling?  That's the grass, there.  You don't need to shovel the snow off the grass.  Just concentrate on making a path down to the street for the truck."

"NO, I can't see where I'm shoveling because AGAIN, there's TWO FEET OF SNOW OUT HERE.  How am I supposed to distinguish grass from pavement when they're both under two feet of snow?"

"Yeah, but the truck is parked on the bump-out, and the grass is right behind the bump-out.  Even you should know where the driveway ends and the grass begins".

"Oh REALLY?  Well you know what else?  EVEN I know that you're wearing a woman's hat!"

"What are you talking about?  My mom made this hat."

"Yeah, I know. She made it for me. It's a lavender and teal crocheted cap with a tassel on top.  What about this hat says menswear to you?"

"The fact that it's keeping my head warm.  I don't care what the hat looks like, my head feels just fine."

"And it looks downright pretty.  I have a scarf to match, I can get it for you."

"No, don't bother.  You just keep shoveling out the lawn in case someone wants to play badminton.  When you're finished, you can climb up and shake the snow off the tree branches...you never know if a hibernating squirrel's going to need an ambulance up there."

I crack up at things that are far less funny than that, so the back-and-forth ceased for a few minutes.  I'm nothing if not gracious in defeat.  This was a good-natured argument to begin with, but even if it wasn't, I'd have laughed at the tree suggestion.

We continued to shovel for a bit, talking about this and that.  Did I see how the mailboxes were just barely poking out of the snow?  Yes, I did.  Did he know that the Postal Service had announced that there would be no mail delivery today?  No, really?  Yes, and they'll probably close school on Monday, too.

I was finally tired, so I decided to take a break.  "Go ahead," he said indulgently.  "I'm going to keep going for a while...it's good that you cleared off some of that grass, just in case anyone needs to practice putting."

I put my shovel down.  "That's still a woman's hat," I said.

* So many more speed camera tickets since then.  I lost count at 12.  I wish I was joking about that. 

Stranger things have happened

There's a lady in our neighborhood who runs every day, almost without fail.  Rain, shine, cold, heat, wind, snow; it doesn't matter.  Running Lady (we call her Running Lady, although I do know her real name) runs.

I used to joke about running.  If you ever see me run, I'd tell people, then you'd better run too.  Don't ask questions, don't waste time looking to see what's coming, just run.  The idea being that if I'm running, then something is chasing me; and you, to save your life, don't need to outrun whatever it is.  You only need to outrun me, and that's not hard.  The bar is pretty low.

Well, never say never, is what I always say (although I suppose you should never say always, either.)  Unpursued by anything life-threatening, I started to run a few weeks ago, and I feel strangely compelled to continue.  I'm really terrible at it, and I mean really terrible.  I'm slow, awkward, and lack endurance.

Every runner hits a wall at some point; for me, it's usually about 15 or 20 steps in.  That's no exaggeration.  I'm barely out of my driveway when I start to feel like I can't go on, but I push past it, and once I do, I can usually focus, for a few steps at least, on something other than how much I hate to run.  Each time I run now, the number of steps that I can run while thinking something other than "When can I stop? Now? Did I run a mile yet? No? Not quite two blocks? That felt like a mile.  Damn it," increases, and my determination to go just a few more steps grows.  Eventually, I stop and walk, and then I start running again.

I hope that someday, maybe even one day soon, I'll be able to run for longer distances and that the walking breaks will be fewer and shorter and farther between.  For now, I'll take what I can get.  I'm not planning to train for a marathon (even a 5K would be ridiculously ambitious at this point) but never say never.

Interior design

I just saw a televised tour of El Chapo's hideout.  It looked like a 27-year-old software engineer's apartment.  White walls, unadorned by anything other than a wall-mounted flat screen TV; beige, builder's grade carpet; a brown microfiber living-room suite, with the couch, love seat, and overstuffed chair pushed up against the bare white walls; and a bedroom furnished with a bare mattress and box-spring set, with a pile of pillows and blankets that looked like they'd been recently slept on or under.  Pizza boxes, newspapers, and DVDs were strewn about.  Minus the bullet holes, the place looked like it belongs in a garden apartment complex in Reston.

Maybe El Chapo should consider a career change.  Defense contractors in the DMV are always hiring engineers. He'd have to settle for $100,000 or so a year, rather than $100 million, but his apartment would be just as nice as the one he just vacated, and he'd be able to leave home once in a while without a disguise.  And it's not likely that Sean Penn would come around pestering him, either.  Something to think about.