Something totally delightful and unexpected happened this week. I speak not of the assembled masses marching in unison in order to acknowledge my birthday, which, as you all know, was last Monday. This particular event was so earth shattering for me and so astonishing that it left me speechless. OK, cease with those nasty thoughts right this minute.
Even though I really need to stretch this intro, more so than usual, I shall cut to the chase and impart the big news. Grasp something sturdy and ready yourselves. I got a real piece of fan mail. Boom, there you have it. I know it is exceptionally shocking, lurid and yet, true.
I need to begin by thanking the senders of said mail but, in doing so, I cannot divulge last names. I do not want to expose these chicks as ardent readers of Rants and Raves as they might be in the closet about such shenanigans. Thank you to Lillian and to Alice for reading this drivel on a regular basis.
I love receiving fan mail, almost as much as I live for writing the words fan and mail. However, now I have added pressure to actually pound out an original. In other words, I was going to skip writing a column this time but now I feel that I must. Now that I ponder a bit, how dare you thank me in the form of a note. (Yes, sarcasm was intended.)
I have no clue what to pen this week. I mean, how much stress can one person take? I'm under tremendous pressure now because of one piece of paper expressing accolades. Hold me.
I suppose I could blather on to the max about how ridiculous the conditions are outside of my home. I am not talking about the weather, in general, as I did that a few columns back. Heaven knows, I'm all about being original so that is out the door.
What I mean is the ice buildup that has me literally, (and you know I only use that word as defined), stranded within the confines of this abode.
For some reason, which I cannot fathom, we have run out of rock salt. I cannot travel to retrieve this winter staple because I am prevented from navigating the sidewalk, for obvious reasons. Since utilizing the walkway is out of the question, I am unable to trek to the van and journey out of the driveway.
Actually, pulling out of the drive could be problematic because I'm making some extra money by leasing it to an up and coming ice skater for practice purposes.
Speaking of the van, Edna, she is not a winter vehicle and has been blanketed in about twelve feet of snow for about a week. My kid attempted a clean sweep but his stilts hit a slick patch and, well, need I explain?
I know it's illegal to operate heavy machinery, such as Edna, with Mount Everest perched atop and I would never dream of breaking the law. Therefore, here I am—totally unable to make contact with the world beyond my front door.
Speaking of the front door, there is so much snow and ice on the porch roof that the storm door will not open fully. We all must wedge sideways in order to check on the above-mentioned driveway Olympian in training.
Come to think of it, I'm claustrophobic and I can't cope any longer. I apologize to my two fans, Lillian and Alice, for not being able to complete this piece. I'm clearly having some sort of break with reality—again, STOP it with those impure thoughts. Walls are closing in. Visions of snow tsunamis are cluttering my brain. I'm trapped, stuck, cornered and all other words associated with such. (That's all I could find in the online thesaurus.)
On second thought, it might have been a bad idea to bloviate about ice, snow and other items associated with the great outdoors. For the love of everything loveable, send rock salt.
THE END.