Richmond - Breakfast & Beer

Last week, I found myself in Richmond, Virginia for a business trip. When I travel, I usually try to stay at one of the local Hilton hotels. One of my favorite brands of the Hilton chain is the Embassy Suites. Aside from the spacious rooms, they also have a nice breakfast every morning and an "evening reception" every night. The reception is basically a free happy hour. And if it's free and it makes you happy, it's definitely for me!

The morning breakfast is always interesting. They have these stainless steel bins loaded up with bacon, sausage, eggs, etc. I'm not really much of a breakfast person but I tend to make an exception when I stay here. As I survey the room on my first day, the first thing that I notice is that the food supply is about to take a pounding. I don't want to be insensitive, but let's just say that there were some pretty robust people in the house. I swear, I saw one stoutly woman load her plate up with at least five pounds of bacon. Maybe it was her idea of a low-carb diet, I dunno. But, nonetheless, I felt the urge to call 911. I just couldn't see anyone ingesting that much cholesterol in one sitting without some kind of medical intervention.

On another note, I always like those toasters they have at these places. You lay your slices of bread on a small conveyor belt and a couple minutes later you have toast. It's like a David Copperfield trick! The problem with this is that there's always some inconsiderate prick who will abandon his toast. This usually causes a back-up with my toast which requires me to fish it out with a fork (I would normally just reach in with my fingers. However, people look at you funny if you don't use tongs or a fork to fetch your food in these places).

And I can't stand the people who tie up the coffee line. Instead of stepping aside to prepare their cup of java, they'll stand in front the dispenser for 5 minutes while they fumble with packs of Splenda and mini-cups of Half-and-Half. I am not a violent person but I have fought the urge to punch these people. Congestion in the coffee line can have a mood-altering effect on people.

And speaking of mood-altering effects, let's talk about the "evening reception". Starting at 5:30 every night, the Embassy Suites opens up their much-anticipated Happy Hour (since it goes on until 7:30, it actually two happy hours). It's an opportunity to unwind with your co-workers or to mingle with the other hotel guests.

Your choices of adult beverages are usually limited to a couple of domestic draft beers and the normal variety of cheap wine and liquor. If you're looking for a glass of Chateau Margaux or a splash of Grey Goose, you're probably going to be disappointed. Speaking of Geese, I was happy to see that this Embassy Suites was offering a Goose Island IPA as one of it's draft beers. Amazingly, some people were still opting for the alternative beer choice, Miller Lite. C'mon, man!

And similar tp the people who selfishly impede the coffee line in the morning, there are people who do the same in the bar line in the evening. For instance, although the sign clearly states the wine choices are limited to Cabernet, Pinot Noir, Pinot Grigio and Moscato, there will be that one person who will demand a glass of White Zinfandel. This will inevitably cause the bartender to go look for the manager as the rest of us stand in line imagining subtle ways to kick the legs out from under the moron. And there are also those people who will order mixed drinks that take ten minutes to make. Rule of thumb, if there's a long line of irritated people behind you, don't order anything that contains more than two liquids. Order a rum and Coke, I hear it's a good combination (and don't bitch because the rum isn't a Ron Zacapa XO!).

Anyway, I eventually make it the front of the line and secure my Goose Island IPA. Sipping the hoppy goodness, I make my way to a vacant table as the stress of the day slowly fades into the background.....

kw

A Colonoscopy Story

When men approach the half-century stage of their lives, they often find themselves spending a lot more time with their doctors. Similar to a car or any other mechanical device, the parts of our bodies inevitably wear out over time. And of course, once you reach middle age, you're expected to have regular check-ups, blood diagnosis and the dreaded colonoscopies.

I put off my colonoscopy for a couple of years. A few months ago, I finally accepted the fact that I was only postponing the inevitable. So, after a little pressure from my primary doctor, I scheduled my appointment with the colon man.

I already knew many people who already had the procedure done. So, I kind of knew what to expect. Almost everyone agreed that the preparation was the worst part of the whole ordeal. Spending "C-scope Eve" making countless runs to the bathroom certainly didn't sound fun. But then again, neither is the aftermath of a Taco Bell value meal. These are the trials and tribulations of an active digestive system.

On the days leading up to the procedure, you're told to lay off of nuts, seeds and other small things that can cling on to the inner walls of your colon. This would be especially tough for me because I very seldom take a lunch break at work, often relying on granola bars to carry me through the afternoon. Well, two days before C-Day, I instinctively ordered the seared tuna appetizer at a local restaurant. I didn't realize until I was half-way through it that it was encrusted with sesame seeds. Figuring I had already sinned, I went ahead and finished the rest of the dish. Hopefully, my doctor would be able to distinguish between a seared sesame seed and a polyp.

On the following morning, I had to start the clear liquid diet. Let me tell you folks, this really limits the menu. For the next day and a half, I would survive on pineapple Jell-O, lemon-lime Gatorade and chicken broth. I have to admit, by the end of the day, the chicken broth actually became quite tasty.

Around about 5 PM, I slowly opened the first bottle of Colon-Blow. I raised the small bottle to my lips and reluctantly tipped it back. I expected it to taste like liquid chalk, but it was actually kind of sweet. It gave me a weird "don't take candy from strangers" feeling. As the last of the bottle made it's way down my esophagus, I could feel the panic starting to kick in. Realizing that time would be of the essence,  I took off my belt and unfastened the top button of my pants.

About 45 minutes later, my stomach began to make gurgling noises. It rapidly made it's way through my digestive tract like an raging bull. As the sweat beads started to form on my brow, I slowly rose from my living room recliner. The classic Clash song "Should I Stay or Should I Go" raced through my mind. Then, a large contraction in my lower abdomen encouraged me to do the latter. I sensed that things were about to get real!

My pants were already around my ankles as I stumbled past the large window in the foyer and nearly tripped into the bathroom. I had hoped that the neighbors didn't see my bare ass during the migration.  But embarrassment was the least of my concerns at this point. I had more pressing issues to deal with.

I made it to the toilet and.......let me just say that the flood gates opened. I don't want to get too graphic but imagine for a minute that the Hoover Dam is at the north end of your colon. Then imagine that everything in your digestive tract is the Colorado River. Now, imagine that the Dam gives way. Anything in the path of the ravaging river would surely be swept away. Well, I think you get the picture...

This went on for the next few hours. By 9 PM, things had settled down. Surprisingly, I had a good night's sleep. As I woke up, things seemed so calm and peaceful. But we weren't quite finished yet. You see, I had to take another dose of the Colon Blow this morning (the day of the procedure). Instead of my usual morning coffee, I tipped back the second container of the "sweet surprise". The second round wasn't as nearly as bad, probably because round one pretty much cleared everything out.

Several hours later, I headed over to the medical center to have my colon scoped. The doctor and his staff were very comforting. The last thing I remember was having a conversation with the anesthesiologist about the beer selection at the Greene Turtle (this started when he commented on the Greene Turtle t-shirt that I happened to be wearing). Anyway, the next thing I knew, I was waking up in the recovery room. I was actually woken by a profanity-laced tirade from a woman in the next recovery stall. I can't remember everything she said but I do recall her threatening to "shit all over the place" if they didn't let her leave. At that point, I motioned to one of the nurses and said, "Check, please!"

The doctor came in and informed me that he removed three polyps. I instantly wondered if they were actually polyps or those sesame seeds that I mentioned earlier. But in either case, the good doctor assured me that they would be tested to make sure that they were not cancerous. Several days later, he called me and told me that everything checked out fine. But just to be safe, I will be going back for a follow-up screening in a few years.

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I often take a humorous approach to life. But I can't express how important it is for people (especially men) to have these types of preventive screenings. The survival rate is very high when colorectal cancer is caught early. So, if you're approaching 50, plan on scheduling your colonoscopy soon. And plan on sticking around for a while. I'm sure there are plenty of people who would really appreciate that...;-)

kw

A Sea Epic (In The Assawoman Bay)

When I was younger, I used to really enjoy fishing. It was a wonderful way to relax. I would cast my line as far out into the water as my Daiwa fishing pole would allow. And then I would kick back in my fold-up chair and wait for that familiar repetitious tug. Although my bounty never amounted to my than a few small perch or an occasional rockfish, it was always an afternoon well spent.

Sometime back in the mid-90's, I was on a family vacation in Ocean City, MD. Even my Dad made a rare appearance at the beach resort. I say this because my Dad liked the beach about as much as he liked the Ravens. Anyway, it was nice to have everyone together.

While the girls were all planning a day out on the beach, the guys were busy planning something a little more adventurous. We finally decided to rent a boat and do a little fishing in the nearby Assawoman Bay.

On the way to the boat rental place, we discussed the big fish fry that we expected to have later in the evening. As we entered a local bait shop, I was delighted to see that offered to clean your fish for $1 each. I thought this was a fair deal. Although I liked catching them, the thought of gutting and filleting a fish never really appealed to me. This is probably why I was never much of a hunter but that's another story...

Our fishing team was comprised of my Dad, my two brothers-in-law (Tim and Tom) and myself. No one was gonna mistake us for those guys you see on the ESPN fishing shows, but we were still beaming with a respectable amount of angler optimism. We secured our small aluminium jon-boat and then headed out to sea (Ok, it was actually the bay, but sea sounds much more impressive).

Once we found a comfortable spot in the middle of the bay, we took care item #1: dispersing a fresh round of beers. My Dad didn't drink but we certainly didn't let him deter the rest of us. With cold beverages in hand, we proceeded to cast our lines out into the short distance. Now, all there was to do was wait and break each other's balls over who would land the biggest fish.

Tom drew first blood when he landed a small perch. It was nothing impressive but he earned the initial bragging rights of the day. He unhooked it and tossed it back into the water.

A short time later, my Dad caught a small flounder. I'm not sure if you have ever seen a flounder but it's a pretty odd looking fish. First off, it's brown (and sometimes spotted) on one side and white on the other. And, it's a "flatfish" so, instead of swimming vertically, it swims horizontally. But most peculiar is that both of it's eyes are on the same side of it's body. And if that's not bad enough, these bulging eyes often seem to be staring in opposite directions. The flounder is like the Marty Feldman of the sea. But for what it might lack in appearance, it's actually quite delicious.

Meanwhile, thoughts of a landing a large swordfish danced through my mind. After all, we were in the self-proclaimed white marlin capital of the world. Then, I thought about what I would do with such a large fish. I don't think you actually eat a white marlin. At least, I've never seen it in a restaurant or grocery store. But nonetheless, the image of hauling a five-foot fish back to the bait shop and asking the guy to clean it for a buck amused me..

I took another sip of my beer which had become luke-warm due to the mid-morning sun. I casually looked at the tip of my fishing rod in hopes of seeing a spontaneous tug. Nothing was happening so I reached into the cooler to grab a fresh beer. Just as I leaned over, I noticed that my rod was now bent over like the upper part of a question mark. I dropped my unopened beer and quickly grabbed the rod. I gave it a tug to make sure that the hook was set into whatever beast happened to be on the other end. As I wound up the slack on the line, I could feel the monster fish swimming wildly from side to side.

The whole time I was reeling it in, I was talking crap to the other guys. I was saying things like, "Let me show you guys how to catch a real fish. Stand back and let a real fisherman work his magic." You get the picture....

As brought my trophy fish closer to the boat, I had a moment of panic when I realized that we didn't have a gaff (this is one of of those large hooks that you use to pull large fish out of the water). When I brought my concern up to the rest of the guys, all I got was a chorus of laughter.

The moment had finally come as I wound up the final few feet of my line. As the fish's head broke the surface of the water, I quickly realized that it was not a marlin. And perhaps, most disappointing, it was just an average size and "regular" looking fish. So, I swallowed my pride and brought it on-board and began the unhooking process. That's when things got crazy.....

While I was holding the fish with one hand and manipulating the hook with the other, the fish seemed to be growing. At first, I figured that the hot sun and warm beer had affected my perception. But it turned out that I wasn't seeing things. This fish was actually blowing up like a balloon. Out of sheer panic, I dropped it onto the floor of the boat. I can't remember for certain, but I think it actually bounced. It was one of the craziest things that I has ever seen. The other guys are laughing their collective asses off as I'm squirming around looking like Captain Quint in his farewell scene in "Jaws".

Shielding my eyes, I shouted, "Watch out, I think it's gonna explode! I'm serious!" This only brought out more laughter. I have to admit, it was refreshing to see my Dad having such a good time. Even if it was at my expense. He ultimately wound up saving the day when he reached over and picked up the fish and gingerly tossed it overboard. When it hit the water, it looked more like a duck than a fish. But it quickly deflated itself and disappeared under the surface of the bay. My Dad later explained that this was some type of blowfish that inflates itself when it gets nervous. I was actually more nervous than the fish was but the only thing inflated on me was my heart rate. I had seen these things on NatGeo or the Discovery channel but I had no idea that they existed in Ocean City.

I picked up what was left of my pride and tossed my freshly baited line back into the water. Before long, I had another nibble. I reeled the line in and anticipated what strange creature I would meet this time. Well, it turns out that that truth can sometimes be stranger than fiction.When I pulled this particular fish out of the water, it had wings! That's right, it had a large freggin' wing on each side. I could almost hear the theme song from "The Twilight Zone" playing in the distance and I scanned the shoreline for a nuclear power plant. As the half-bird/half-fish flopped on the floor of the boat, I just stared in utter amazement. Was it possible that I just caught some kind of prehistoric missing link? Up until this point, the only flying fish that I had seen were those fish that the guys throw to each other out in Seattle.

My Dad and brothers-in-law weren't quite as impressed with my latest catch. Apparently, they had all seen this type of fish before. They informed me that it was called a sea robin. I guess I don't get out much because I had no idea that this thing existed. It looked like the "Creature From The Black Lagoon" to me.

We spent the rest of the day pulling up "normal" fish and swapping stories. Although it nearly gave me a heart attack, it was a great day on the water. Feeling somewhat smarter and experienced, I now knew what a blowfish and sea robin were. And although we came home with no fish, I brought back some great memories. And that's better than a stuffed flounder any day.

kw

If You're Irish and You Know It, Clap Your Hands

Deep down inside, I've always wanted to be Irish. There is something so cool about people from the small island nation. I mean, there's the accent itself. How can you not love it? Anyone can say Dublin. But doesn't it sound much more impressive when someone says "Dooblin"?

Then there's the stereotype of the pissed-off Irishman who's always ready to kick ass at a moments notice. Even Tom Cruise got into the ass-kicking game in "Far and Away". Why? Because he was Irish! And speaking of "Far and Away", remember how beautiful Nicole Kidman was in that one? Yeah, yeah, I know Nicole is actually Australian, but she was Irish in the movie and that's good enough for me.

And as a beer connoisseur, I love to tip back a pint of Guinness every now and then. Although I actually prefer Smithwick's, the darker-colored Guinness is more synonymous with a true Irishman. So, that's what I'll drink. And if you want a drink with a harder bite, you can order up a shot of Jameson whisky. I always keep a bottle in my liquor cabinet. I figure if the shit's about ready to hit the fan, I can knock back a couple shots and transition into the Notre Dame mascot. Think of it kinda like the way Bruce Wayne slides down the Bat-pole and turns into the Caped Crusader.

Of course, there's the music too, Yeah, U2 is the most famous and commercially-successful band that came out of Ireland. But when I think of real Irish music, I think of The Dropkick Murphys. Ok, they're actually from Massachusetts, but let's not let trivial facts get in the way of a good story. Every time I hear "Shipping Off To Boston", I feel like knocking back an Irish Car Bomb and asking McBrawly the Bouncer to step outside. I don't actually do it because, in reality, I don't like to get my ass kicked. But what an adrenaline rush!

Ok, by now I think you understand that I like the Irish. So, let me get to my point......

Throughout my life, I had always assumed that I was part Irish. After all, my Dad had told me years ago that our ancestry had it's roots in Ireland. This was good enough for me, so I left it at that and proudly donned the green every St. Patrick's Day. But last year, I signed up for one of those free two-week trials of Ancestry.com. My maternal great-grandparents came to America from Russia so I knew I wouldn't find a whole lot of Irish ancestry there. Therefore, I focused on my father's roots. His family had been in America for many generations so I knew that I would have to dig deep to make my way over to the green island. 

After going back several generations, I finally wound up over in England. Ok, it wasn't quite my coveted Ireland, but at least I was on the right side of the Atlantic. I kept digging, but to my disappointment, I could not find any family members who hailed from Ireland. I was quite actually depressed. Tina saw the look of disappointment on my face as got up from my desk and made my way out of my home office. She asked, "What's wrong?" 

I simply replied, "I don't think I'm Irish."

"What are you talking about?", she asked with a confused look on her face.

"I just did the Ancestry.com thing and it doesn't look like I'm Irish", I explained.

In predictable fashion, she laughed and responded, "You really crack me up."

So, here I was, at one of the lowest points of my life and this is what I get for support. I had an instant urge to pour myself a generous dose of Jameson. But it seemed a bit sacrilegious at this point. So, I did my best to put it behind me and prepared to get on with next stage of my non-Irish life.

A week or so later, Tina and I were shopping at Total Wine in Laurel, MD. There was a beer tasting going on in the back of the store, so I instinctively migrated toward it. As I sampled a few of the brews, I conversed with the woman next to me. We discussed IBU's and hops among other things. And eventually, we got on the subject of Irish beer. I knew that this would be a sensitive subject after so recently finding out about my non-Irish roots. As part of the healing process, I told my story to the women. Flashing a comforting smile, the woman, who happened to be black, put her hand on my shoulder and said, "Well, if it makes you feel any better, I don't have any Irish in my family either." We both laughed. I have to admit, it really did help. I started to believe that I could actually function as a non-Irish American.

But then.......Yes, Virginia there is a Santa Claus!

Last week, my sister informed me that she took the Ancestry.com thing to the next level. She did the DNA test which is supposed to be much more accurate that manually making your way through your family forest. She said that she had just gotten her results back and that I might want to look at them. I was a little reluctant but I asked her to send them to me. As I opened the attachment that she emailed to me, I felt beads of sweat forming on my forehead. I felt like Ralphie from "A Christmas Story" when he was deciphering the secret Ovaltine code. However, my anticipation was rewarded with the best news possible.....It appears that my family does indeed have Irish roots!  I could almost hear Maury Povich saying, "The results are in. And Ken, you are Irish!" I was ecstatic! The first thing I did was go over to my beer fridge and retrieve a cold bottle of Guinness. It was perhaps the best tasting beer that I've ever had. 

kw

My Pain, Her Pleasure

Admittedly, I'm a clumsy person. I am consistently bumping into things, stubbing my toes and inflicting spontaneous pain onto my unsuspecting body. The worst thing about these mishaps is that they often come right out of left field. For instance, I can vaguely remember this one time where I was getting into my car and cracked my chin on the top of the door frame. Bracing myself with both hands on the roof of the car, I wobbled on my feet wondering what the hell just happened. As things slowly began to come back into focus, I realized that I had been sucker-punched by my own car.. I was actually afraid to drive the damn thing for a while. I felt like I owned "Christine" from the old Stephen King movie.

Perhaps the worst thing about all of my mishaps is that Tina finds them absolutely hilarious. The more pain I inflict on myself, the harder she laughs. I could be writhing on the floor in excruciating pain while Tina will be doubled over with laughter. It's like I'm her personal circus-clown.

Tina will often take her shoes off and leave them right in the middle of our foyer. When I come home from a late day at work (which is pretty much every day), I'll enter the dimly lit area with a backpack in one hand and something else in the other. I usually make it about two steps before I trip over the shoe-du-jour and make my quick journey to the hardwood floor. As I slowly make my way back onto my feet, I hear Tina laughing from the living room. I swear, I think she does this stuff on purpose.

Several years ago, I slipped on the ice in our back yard. The slip itself was quite actually impressive. My feet wound up about five feet off the ground and my whole body was perpendicular with the sidewalk below. For an instant, it probably resembled one of those David Blaine levitation stunts. But, in my case, an inevitable crash landing was looming. My ass made contact with the ground first which then  caused a resonating pain down my entire left side of my body. Tina had come outside just in the nick of time to see the aftermath of me rolling around in agony on the cold ground. Her response? She laughed like she was watching Joe Pesci in "My Cousin Vinny".

Earlier this week, I literally ran into another one of my "humorous" mishaps. Tina keeps this electric heater in the bedroom to take the chill off on those really cold nights. The heater resembles a small cast iron stove. Although it's not actually made out of cast iron, it's hard enough (as I would soon find out!) As I roll out of bed to the soothing sound of Tina's 2000-watt hairdryer in the adjacent room, I groggily made my way toward the bathroom. Slowly coming out of the previous night's slumber, I rubbed my semi-open eyes. Then, out of nowhere, I heard a loud "clank". Approximately 100 milliseconds later, I felt a pounding pain in my right kneecap. I had walked right into the corner of the freggin' stove! I leaned against the wall and exhaled a few profanities as I waited for the pain to subside. Meanwhile, in predictable fashion, I hear giggling from the next room. In an attempt to get at least a little emotional support, I explain that the heater just pulled a "Tonya Harding" on my f*cking knee and I'm in serious pain over here. This only generates more laughter and an unsympathetic response of "You really crack me up".

Sometimes, this situation will take turn in a slightly different direction. One time, we were in a grocery store and there was a spill in one of the aisles. I think it was Frank's Red Hot or something. All I remember is that it was red and wet. So, Tina says to me, "Hey Ken, why don't you go over there and slip on that and break your leg. We'll be rich!" Can you believe this bullshit? What kind of sadistic individual says something like that to her husband? Sometimes I feel like the victim in one of those Lifetime movies. She was probably only kidding (at least I hope so) but you can bet your ass that she'd be laughing hysterically if I was laying in Frank's Red Hot with a protruding fibula.

It ain't easy being me, folks. It sure ain't easy....

kw

Tide-Pods - The New Mouthwash

Every generation has it's share of "thrill-seeking" knuckleheads who defy the limitations of modern intelligence. Back in my day, we would do crazy things like jump our bikes over burning trash cans.If the inevitable crash landing wasn't enough to get our adrenaline flowing, we had assurance in the form of an urban fire-pit below. Amazingly, no one got seriously injured (or killed) during these stunts. At least no one that I personally knew.

Nowadays, in the generation of all things indoors, kids have taken to gathering in the laundry room to partake in something called the "Tide-Pod Challenge". To be honest, before this started, I really didn't even know what a Tide-Pod was. And when I first heard the term "Tide-Pod Challenge", I assumed that it was a some sort of throw-down from a University of Alabama rival. But after doing some basic research in the form of a Google search engine, I found out that this latest "challenge" consists of kids eating liquid laundry detergent. Chew on that for just a minute while I take you back to my day again...

I'll be the first to admit that I have a potty mouth. I sometimes drop a barrage of profanity that would make someone with Tourette's blurt out "WTF!" What can I say? I get a bit excited sometimes. But the whole point of this is......back in the day, if I dropped a spontaneous f, s or b-bomb, I would find myself with a bar of soap in my mouth. This certainly wasn't by choice nor was it self-induced. You see, that's what parents did to "teach their kids a lesson" about the evils of profanity back in the day. Ironically, my introduction to four-letter words was the by-product of hearing my Dad go off on his topic-du-jour. The "Fudge" scene from "A Christmas Story" is a perfect illustration of how things played out back then.

So, back to modern times, kids (and amazingly, adults too) are now choosing to put soap in their own mouths by biting into Tide-Pods and putting a video of the "stunt" online. Then, they challenge other online friends to do the same. Aside from soap tasting absolutely nasty, it can also be quite dangerous. But when did that ever stop an aspiring YouTube star?

And just when you think it can't get any more ludicrous, there are actually lawmakers who are pushing for stricter warning labels on Tide-Pods to prevent people from eating them. That's right, we now live in a society where we have to actually warn people to not eat laundry supplies. While they're at it, they might to legislate a warning label to deter people from eating that large mint that floats at the bottom of a urinal.

Some of the defenders of the Tide-Pod poppers argue that the bright, multi-colored detergent capsules are made to look too "appetizing". Really? A peacock displays an impressive array of colors too but I've never had the urge to bite into one. I guess soft drinks should be served in blandly-colored cans to prevent people from tossing the contents and eating the aluminum?

So, as preparations for this year's Darwin Awards are underway, Tide-Pod connoisseurs should feel confident that they'll be genuine contenders. You guys have deservedly earned your nomination!

kw

The Joys of Winter Driving

I'm not a big fan of the winter. I'd much rather be outside frolicking in the warm spring time air. But, as a person who's lived in the Northeast my whole life, I've learned to expect the temporary setbacks of the frigid winters.

One the main gripes that I have at this time of year is the challenges that come with driving. We all have responsibilities that require us to get from point A to point B. And most of us accomplish this seemingly uneventful task by simply getting into our vehicle and proceeding to drive it to our destination. However, winter always tends to throw us a snow-covered curveball.

The snow itself is the most obvious detriment to my winter driving experience. My slippery journey often begins before I even start my vehicle. I trek outside with a push broom firmly clutched in one hand while the other drags a snow shovel behind me. As I push the snow off of the roof of my car, a wind gust will inevitably rear it's ugly head and redistribute the snow all over mine. I instinctively throw the push broom across the driveway. After several repetitions of this, I eventually get the car cleared. With my half-frozen face and icicle-infused hair, I take on the appearance of the Snow Miser from "A Year Without a Santa Claus".

Once I finally get out on the road, a new set of problems arises. As I make my way into traffic, I am greeted with a fresh blast of road-spray. It's like nature's way of saying, "Welcome to the party!" My visibility is quickly reduced to a Stevie Wonder level. I impulsively begin to pump washer fluid onto my filthy windshield and, thankfully, I begin to see daylight again. Of course, this will only last until the next episode of road-spray comes my way. And at some point during my travel, I will run out of washer fluid. At this point, my wiper-blades' clearing ability is severely compromised and they only function to smear mud across windshield. And to make it even worse, this always seems to happen when the sun is at that perfect angle. It's bad enough that I can't see through the opaque window, but now I've got the sun glaring off it like an acetylene torch. Eventually, navigation becomes impossible and I wind up pulling over to remedy the situation. Since removing the windshield isn't a valid option, I stand on the side of the road and throw snow at it. Passing motorists gawk at me as I look like a delusional idiot having a snowball battle with my car. But nonetheless, the snow begins to melt and it slowly cleanses the muck off of the window.

As I get back into traffic, I will ultimately get behind some inconsiderate numbskull who didn't take the time or responsibility to adequately clear the snow from his car. Case in point......Coasting along at 55 mph, I finally find myself in a tranquil mood as David Gilmore plays one of those soothing Pink Floyd solos through my car stereo. And then, just as "Dark Side of the Moon" hits it's apex, my heart nearly stops as a large sheet of snow comes crashing down across my hood and windshield. It immediately makes me wonder how those folks on the Titanic felt when they hit that similarly-sized iceberg. My first reaction is to find out who caused it and chase him down. Once I caught the person, I'm not sure will would come next. But a throat-punch is certainly in order. Yeah, I know this is not a reasonable option (mainly because there's a large sheet of snow blocking my view). So, I shrug it off and, feeling like a beaten man, cautiously continue on.

When I finally make it to where I'm going, my car shows the signs of an embattled warrior. A quick survey shows a couple new dings on the hood and at least one of those little stars on the windshield. And of course, with all of the road salt clinging to it, my car looks like it just crashed into a Pablo Escobar factory.

While I may have learned to expect these types of things, it surely doesn't mean that like them. How many days is it until Spring again?

kw