Tonight is neither the
night nor the weather for ass-riding. Wait. No, that’s not what I mean.
It’s snowing. Actually, it has been lightly snowing most of
the day. A quick check of the forecast
reveals that today’s mild temperatures and quiet flurries are about to take a
turn for the Arctic chill and another measurable snowfall. Couple the impending Sunday snowstorm with
the Super Bowl, and I make a snap decision:
Grocery store. Now.
I call my friend, and she
makes the equally snap decision to tag along and pick up some stuff she needs,
too. The flurries seem to have stopped,
so I race over to her house, fighting the snowbanks at each corner for a few
inches of visibility. Every intersection
is a multitude of blind corners, and I start to wonder what in the hell we are
thinking when we make the decision to go out at all.
Our trip to the store is
surprisingly uneventful except for a quick game of Marco Polo when we get
separated in the produce section. As we
exit to the parking lot, we can see that the flurries have gotten serious. The snow falls steadily, and the wind howls
mercilessly. The mild afternoon rolls
into the pissed off evening, dropping large puffs of white onto our coats while
we methodically pack grocery bags into the back of my car.
We are less than a quarter
mile out of the lot when we see blue flashing lights. An accident has just occurred, and the police
are about to close down the road for the tow truck that barrels at us from the
opposite direction. We crawl past the
wreck to freedom beyond. I am silently
thankful that we became separated in the produce aisle and again at the
check-out. A few minutes faster, and we
may have been the recipients of the nasty little crash; a few seconds later,
and we’d be stuck in an accident reconstruction zone.
This is when I pick up
Tail #1.
Suddenly a vehicle is
right on top of us, racing past the injured car like a bat out of Hell, attaching
itself to my rear bumper. Good god, it’s
snowing, the streets still aren’t completely clear, and I have Speed Racer
trying to give my car the equivalent of a rectal exam.
“That guy’s riding right
up my ass,” I observe, half matter-of-fact and half rip-shit.
“Well,” my friend
responds, completely dead-pan, “this is neither the night nor the weather for
an ass-riding!”
When she realizes what she
is saying, we both crack up. “Text that
to me,” I tell her. We both know where
this is going – straight into the blog.
By the time we get back to
her house to unload her groceries, it’s snowing at a decent clip, and I know I
won’t be staying to help her unpack the bags nor to beg her for a cup of
tea. It’s a hit-and-run stop, not the
same kind we just passed in Lowell, but equally dire. I know I have to get out of there before the
roads get too bad in case this squall decides to sit stationary for a while.
I am not even a half mile
from her house when I pick up Tail #2.
Tail #2 follows me for a few miles, a big honking SUV attached to my
bumper like an overgrown metallic hemorrhoid.
Even though I drive 30 mph in the 30 mph zone and 40 mph in the 40 mph
zone and 20 mph in the 20 mph zone, Asshole is up my proverbial asshole.
My friend’s words come
wafting back into my head. It’s snowy,
icy, windy, slippery, and downright miserable.
In fact, it's neither the night nor the weather for an ass-riding, folks,
and that is my simple public service message for the day.
