general rantage

I read Judith Warner's latest column for the New York Times this morning. My first reading was not a good one. In fact, the whole column sent me into a rage. Luckily for me, it snowed last night (you may have heard that the Northeast experienced a (what else?) Nor'easter last night). For those of us who do not have servants or husbands to shovel our driveways and sidewalks for us, what that meant was that, after my routine cups of coffee and a bowl of cereal, I donned clothes (the sweats I wore yesterday, pulled out of the dirty clothes hamper), a hat, coat, gloves, and my iPod, and grabbed a shovel.

As it turns out, the snow wasn't all that bad. Only about six inches, and while it had been icy coming down, creating hazardous road conditions, on the end of my shovel, it felt fairly light. Of course, it could have been my anger was fueling me, and I did find that the only music that I'd allow the iPod to play had to have a driving beat. I attacked the snow, making a game of seeing just how far I could launch it off the end of the shovel and onto the yard. I seethed about the article, and now, having showered, drunk a cup of tea, and, tucked under blankets to try to keep warm in my old, draughty house, I am trying to articulate why the article made me so goddamned mad.

I read Judith Warner's latest column for the New York Times this morning. My first reading was not a good one. In fact, the whole column sent me into a rage. Luckily for me, it snowed last night (you may have heard that the Northeast experienced a (what else?) Nor'easter last night). For those of us who do not have servants or husbands to shovel our driveways and sidewalks for us, what that meant was that, after my routine cups of coffee and a bowl of cereal, I donned clothes (the sweats I wore yesterday, pulled out of the dirty clothes hamper), a hat, coat, gloves, and my iPod, and grabbed a shovel.

As it turns out, the snow wasn't all that bad. Only about six inches, and while it had been icy coming down, creating hazardous road conditions, on the end of my shovel, it felt fairly light. Of course, it could have been my anger was fueling me, and I did find that the only music that I'd allow the iPod to play had to have a driving beat. I attacked the snow, making a game of seeing just how far I could launch it off the end of the shovel and onto the yard. I seethed about the article, and now, having showered, drunk a cup of tea, and, tucked under blankets to try to keep warm in my old, draughty house, I am trying to articulate why the article made me so goddamned mad.