The Snowpocalypse

What a dud. I haven’t been that disappointed since I found out last week that Ana Cheri is married.

After an entire day of doomsday sirens and emptying bread aisles, the Snowpocalypse came and went with a feeble whimper. I’m going to start referring to my penis as “Snowpocalypse”; I’ll breathlessly everyone it’s going to be massive – potentially historic, even – and based on the hype it’ll be pretty disappointing, but hey, it’s still six inches if you measure from the right spot, and we should probably just not go to work and stay in bed all day anyway, whaddaya say?

If you were one of those people sprinting through Trader Joes in your uggs like the zombies were coming, I don’t blame you. I really thought there was going to be a ton of snow, too. I’m just too lazy to do that sort of preparation. This was what I saw in my refrigerator on Tuesday night, when I got home and began my “storm prep”:

Actual photo. Sorry, mom - I'm not quite there yet.

Actual photo. Sorry, mom – I’m not quite there yet.

Starting from the top and going clockwise, that’s…

– Olive oil (not sure if this is something that belongs in the fridge)
– Salsa (at least 2 months old)
– Miso soup (at least a month old)
– Tomato sauce (age unknown)
– A tallboy Bud Heavy
– A small takeout-container-thing of BBQ sauce creeping in the corner
– Hot sauce

If you’re keeping score at home, that’s five (5!) “condiments” (I’m using that word loosely), one completely spoiled serving of miso soup…and the Budweiser, a bastion of truth and order in this otherwise wicked, nonsensical fridge (look at him, standing there… tall, proud, patriotic). If Juno had actually dropped 4-6 penises on us like the weathermen said, I would have been moderately screwed, left to douse a can of tuna in hot sauce and quickly chug the beer to get at least a faint buzz for a few minutes.

Sidenote: I think the fridge is the best quick insight into a man. If I was a girl and considering dating a guy, that would be the first thing I’d look at. My fridge looks like the minifridge at the Motel 6 where the husband is staying for a week or two after his wife catches him cheating and they don’t have a plan yet but just desperately need some space to think; clearly, I’m not relationship material at the moment (although I’m trying to learn). If that bottom area is filled with fruits and vegetables? Marry the guy immediately.

Back to my lack of snow prep: another factor is my irrational amount of faith in NYC food delivery guys. They get shit done. If you’ve ever seen one lugging four giant bags of wings to the 5th floor of a walk-up with a huge chain slung around their neck like a metallic pet python, you probably believe in these guys too. I could totally see the guy who delivers my chinese food slicing open the belly of a Tauntaun and sleeping in it if the situation called for it. If I had to start a real-life version of The Oregon Trail today, I would want a couple delivery guys in my party – not some useless bankers or artists.

In the end, we’ll remember the Snowpocalypse for giving most of New York City a completely unwarranted “work from home” day, also known as the Aborted Orgasm of the holiday family tree.

Don’t know what an Aborted Orgasm is? Fine, I’ll explain it. It’s like a normal orgasm, except something goes wrong… but you’ve already passed the point of no return, so you try and enjoy it a little but end up having a really unsatisfying climax and wondering what could have been. It could be your sister knocking on the door right as Ginger Spice was sending you over the edge, or it could be the horrific realization that you’ve lasted 45 seconds with the girl of your dreams and you’re not making it to 55. The feelings are all the same as those associated with a WFH day, right down to “feeling bloated afterwards”.

I can’t say I’m surprised. I like Mayor DeBlasio, but the guy eats his pizza with a fork – of course he’s going to shit his pants and sound the alarm when it flurries. Next time we have some dire forecast, I’m going to do what I did last night: ask the dude at the 24-hour corner deli if they’d be staying open. He laughed at me and turned to his buddy, who was making my turkey sub, and said something in Spanish (I can only assume it was a slang word for “vagina”) before turning back to me with a smile.

“Yeah, amigo. We’ll be open.”