Mar
17

The Only Post In Which I Will Ever Reference “My Humps.”

We here in the Twin Cities had a blizzard this week. On Monday, I stayed home from work because I couldn’t find my car. Also, I was tired, and all of the schools were closed, and I could hear sirens from the highway, and besides, I hadn’t done any laundry. But mostly it was because of the car thing. When I went out to the parking lot, My Humps began playing in my head, because that is all that was to be seen—humps of snow, presumably with automobiles underneath them. I gamboled back inside to have a snow day.

I love snow. I am excellent at walking on ice in heels–the trick is to use your heel like an ice-pick, stamping it down with each step. When the windchill is far below zero I do not take the Company Shuttle to my car in the far-away parking lot. The Company Shuttle is for babies, thin-skinned little babies who do not have my impressive pioneer spirit and cold tolerance. It is true that I cannot run a marathon or “heal the sick” like other, more illustrious bloggers. I wouldn’t know what to do with a baseball bat, and I am bored by chess. But send me out in the cold, and I will prove the innate weather-related superiority of Midwesterners.

When I went away to college at Sarah Mawr, none of my new friends had been further west than Philadelphia. They whiled away the crisp fall days laughing when I said “pop” instead of “soda” and asking how many goats I had back at home. But when winter came, it was my turn to mock—New York got a paltry two and a half inches of snow, and classes were cancelled. My roommates cowered near the radiator wrapped in scarves and drinking hot chocolate, while I sucked on a filthy icicle and told them frostbite stories from my youth. After a winter shopping trip, my friends took a cab back uptown while I walked the thirty blocks myself, saving enough money for an extra martini.

This past Wednesday, the contestants on America’s Next Top Model had to do a photo shoot in a freezing warehouse, posing on blocks of ice. A caption across the bottom of the screen informed us that the temperature in the warehouse was “only” twenty degrees.
“That’s positively balmy,” I told the Nearly scornfully. The models whimpered and turned a delicate Vermeer blue as their pretty teeth chattered. They squealed as their asses touched the ice. “Suck it up, Bitches!” I crowed.
Frankly, I think they should all have been eliminated, for whining and because their pictures were terrible. Whereas I—if not for the fact that I am short and unattractive—would have ROCKED that photo challenge.

It may seem like this entry has no point, but I am trying to help you, my readers, get to know me, as I am still too lazy to complete my “About Me” page. Now you know that if I were in a plane crash in Alaska, I would be right at home, building an igloo and chomping on somebody’s femur.

Do you have special skills because of where you grew up? Skills that allow you to feel superior to others?
For instance, perhaps you grew up on a houseboat and as a result are able to catch fish with your bare hands, rather than going to the supermarket like the rest of us un-evolved non-fish-grabbing folk. I am curious, so tell me.

By Alexa | Posted in Ceci N'est Pas Une Ecrivaine |