Sno-Day

I am glad today that I am not a flower delivery man. But you, American Northeast, shall get your flower deliveries! Have no fear! (you have to read that loudly, like Jon Lovitz. It loses something in translaton). Winston's has 4-wheel drive.

It is Snow Day in New England, which in mid-February would not be post-worthy in any other winter. But not only has it not snowed this season, it hasn't even rained -- just cloudless sunny days of 9 degrees, which will make spring feel like a downturn instead of the upturn it usually is.

This is not going to be one of those well-considered, over-researched, insert-third-hyphenate-adjectives posts you enjoy from the drawing-in room. It is going to be more like a letter I might write you, since I am just going to write off the top of my head -- coffee at hand, Pachelbel on the faux-classical station which is playing "romantic classics," whatever those are. Songs your lover has heard of, I think.

This is one of those posts where I feel like I have not posted recently enough (and neither have you, but we're talking about me now). So you are catching whatever is on my mind at 7:45 on a weekday, which as you may already know is indeed how I write a letter.

And I have been as far as the curb to put out the trash, because there is no snowday for them either. I am glad I am not a garbage man. That's generally true regardless of the weather. I hate having to be publicly grateful for a non-essential desk job that today consists of 3 conference calls anyway. But here in my thermal jammies, with coffee and commercially-accessible classical music... I will not choose today to complain.

Because I was not here in 78, the best blizzard story I have is the April Fool's day storm of 1997. And that was nothing to sniff at for sure, as it was only 3 inches short of "the big one." It was the kind of storm you had to keep up with -- going out every hour or so to maintain your tunnel out and free the car in case anyone had a heart attack freeing the car.

I know that a blizzard is no damper on a valentines day if you knew enough yesterday to cancel your plans and buy a roasting chicken, potatoes and gravy, asparagus, and a couple of bottles of wine. You both call in snowy and have the Sunday you always say you are going to have but don't, because someone wants to go running or furniture shopping or "do" the yard. Dr Zhivago is a good rental for a day like today.

I was having a work dream this morning just before I woke to the sound of the plow. I hate to go from the above image to this one, but we are not editing today. Anyway, the senior exec of my department -- that is to say, the Boss's Boss, or "Big Sweaty," -- was there, and dressed in an outfit I think my Ken doll had -- a white v-neck tennis sweater, and possibly shorts. I didn't look. He asked me if I was getting a lot of work done on these at-home days. (and you know what, sir..? no, but that's not for lack of trying) It was not snowing in my dream. Clearly, he was playing tennis. Standing on the porch of some Somerville-style house, where Blythe Danner was vaguely present in the background and for a second Grey's Anatomy's Ellen Pompeo.
[sidebar: Grudge Match - Ellen Pompeo and Calista Flockhart. go.]
[second sidebar: "celebopedia." excellent]

Oh ~~ so, anyway, I said some feathery blahblah answer -- pretty much exactly what I would say to him if he asked me this in real life -- and I awoke wondering if I feel bad about working from home. I do not. I'll tell you what I told the Boss (the immediate one, not the sweaty one) yesterday which was, "It's 2 hours to work, 3 hours of listening to everybody's story about how they got to work, lunch, then leave early because oh...the weather. If I stay home, I can be productive at 7am."

So now it is 8.
One woman's "productive...."
I'll stop.
Time to make the WENUS.
Happy Valentine's Day.