Every morning here is the same. The stupid annoying alarm goes off and Edsel LEAPS off the bed and runs out, as though someone is ringing shots into the bedroom. Tallulah stays where she is, with her head on the other pillow, sleeping through each time I hit snooze, which is 394994293 times.
Occasionally she'll flap her snout up in my hair and sighhhhhhhh on my neck. Siiiiiiiiiyyy. Finally, after snooze hit number 394994293, I say to her, "Are you ready to get up? Have breakfast?" And she always acts like this is a completely fantastic idea I'd never come up with before.
What I'm saying to you is I love Tallulah.
That picture up there is from the other day, when I'd just made the bed, then came in four seconds later to find Talu getting everything just the way she likes it: All fucked up. And yes, those sheet ARE wrinkly. I used to iron the sheets, but then I got a life.
Anyway. We're expecting a big snowstorm here--I mean, big for the South. Six to 10 inches! Hooooo-haaaaaa. Which, pfft. Six to 10 inches in Michigan is just another day.
That's what Hulk said.
It's all very exciting here. Everyone at work is creating if-I-can't-make-it-in-due-to-these-four-inches-of-snow or whatever plans, and the grocery store was ludicrous and while others got bread and milk I got popcorn and lemonade and a jar of Parmesan cheese. Everyone has their priorities. I feel like Pa Ingalls getting ready for The Long Winter.
Now, see, THAT was a storm. A storm that lasted five months and blocked the trains from coming in to deliver food because the snow was taller than trains. That is what you'd call a storm. When you have to grind wheat and make depressing bread as your entire meal plan for a whole season. That whole family musta been carbed out. "Soon as this storm clears, Ma, we're all going on Atkins."
I should make the Little House books required reading for this blog.
Anyway, that is what's going on in my world. The snow is set to begin at 9 a.m., and we will all rush to the windows like we're eight years old at work, I promise you. After the first inch or two we'll all get told we can go home if we need to. The South cracks me up.
So I'll talk at you from under all this dramatic snow. Maybe I will include pictures of snow cat Iris, who last time picked it up with her paws, shook it off and picked more up with her paws again. She was riveted. For a minute. eyeriss able to kill this? this good to eet? then forget.
June, frigid. And out.