Oh January... Won't You Ever Stop Being a Be-Yatch? 

... and give me back my traker, dammit!

Okay, so today In-AccuWeather finally got it right. Boy did they ever! Armageddon struck late last night and continued on... well, it's still continuing as I write this around 5:15pm EST. What the eff??@!#*!?

It started snowing last night. No biggie. But this morning it was 28 flippin' degrees and it was POURING outside. 

Rain. Seriously. RAIN. 

How can it rain at 28 degrees? How is that even possible. In the meantime, there was at least an inch or so of ice on everything... sidewalks, trees, bushes, neighbors' dogs, leftover creepy Santas, Dick Cheney's discarded soul... 

Being the smart sh*t I am, I stretched on my Yak Trakers (the absolutely, most wonderful rubber-and-metal-spiral thingie ever made to help us less than graceful types stay upright and mobile on ice) over my fabulous Lands End snow shoes and scaled up Mt. McBiltmore to the trolley. 

Wrestling with the hundred pound suitcase I call "my bag" and the umbrella (did I mention it was raining, in like biblical proportion?) I managed to maneuver down the lesser mountain path to the train. Wherein I noticed I had lost one of my Trakers!?! These things are so tight on a shoe it's like you need a frelling crowbar to get them on and off. How the hell did it get sucked off my shoe?! Frake!

It continued to rain all morning until afternoon, when the precip (settle down...I know weather jargon makes you all hot and frisky) turned to snow. So to recap... pouring rain at 28 degrees... snow at 34 degrees. 

That's messed up, Dude. I don't get it. I think the globe has tilted backwards on its axis, because that ain't right.

Lucky for me I walked today because the roads were still treacherous. Even in my one Yak Traker--yes, I'm a dork and wore the one Traker--I made it up the hill when this poor slob couldn't. I feel your pain, Bub. 

Alright... I'll concede it is pretty, especially now that I'm inside. 

But January's just been a bitter, old, nasty-assed, surly, seismically sadistic Bee-Yatch of a month. It needs to stop snapping my butt with its cold, icy towel and make room for February.

And if that little, good-for-nothing-but-road-kill-stew critter, Phil sees his shadow... 

"There Once Was A Man From Nantucket..."

or the wiener of the week story 

(continuing with last week's whole trouser-trout theme)

Okay, so there's this young woman with whom I work who pretty much has it all going on. She's young, trim, gorgeous, extremely talented at her job and super sweet, too boot.

I should hate her.

But she does ungirlie stuff like belch, make off-color remarks and generally act like a 12-year-old, so how could I not like her? Seriously. She's a kid after my own twisted and depraved heart.

So last week we started talking about dating. She has recently ended a long-term relationship with a lovely young athlete, sporting an equally lovely posterior. His line of work has taken him across the pond and beyond to Sweden. It's too bad. They made a really cute couple. But honestly, she is so gorgeous she could be dating anyone.

Again, I should hate her.

Anyhoo...in our discussion about the trials of dating, the conversation took a turn for the knockwurst--namely wieners, if you get my drift. Now she's a nice girl, not a hootchie tart who's slept around a lot so her exposure to a variety of vienerschnitzel is limited. She hasn't seen many, and therein lies her anxiety. Her point is there are no surprises for boys regarding girls' attributes. Let's face it, the girls are out there--front and center for the world to see and judge--and women's junk pretty much all looks and functions the same. Let's be honest, the biggest mystery "downtown" is whether the carpet matches the drapes. (You can revisit the whole getting your "Betty Ready" thang here and here.)

But with Dudes, it's hard to tell what's prowling around in those pantalones. You know, like what if it makes this strange right turn halfway up... or it has like an extra ridge on its helmet like some freakishly mutilated mushroom cap... or is thin and wispy like a super model on a three-cigarettes-a-day diet ... or God forbid, is short and squat. Nobody wants a Stubby Malone. Seriously. What if Mr. Ding doesn't know how to "dong" properly, or is a little too familiar with a gal's mysterious island shrouded in shrubbery. As a single girl, she thinks about this.

Hey, these are her fears, and they're legit. I'm married. I'm immune to these concerns. But she's single and still has to test drive this year's model(s).

You know everyone thinks boys talk trash about chicks and their bits. But, surprise! this is what girls really talk about. So fellas, fair warning. Next time you see a gaggle of girls giggling around a desk, just keep walking. You don't want to know whose junk's being joshed.