I maintain an “Odd Holiday” list,
But I keep finding key dates I’ve missed:
“Checklists Day” isn’t there.
It was ONCE there, I swear!
Must enlist an “Alexa” assist.
(October 30th is Checklists Day.)
Mark and I are looking forward to the next heavy rain storm, since we don’t dare hope for a multi-day thaw. And until one or the other happens here in New York City, we won’t be able to use our back door (which opens out) or get into our yard.
My two-verse limerick explains all:
Who Needs A Door, Anyway?
By Madeleine Begun Kane
Can’t exit our house from the back,
Cuz the door’s blocked by snowdrifts, alack!
We would shovel it free
If we could, but you see
We’ve no route to that snow we can track.
For the trail to that door’s through the yard.
And clearing that path’s more than hard.
For the yard gate is blocked
From inside, as if locked
By still more snow. Our entry is barred.
Guilt Springs Eternal
By Madeleine Begun Kane
Spring has arrived. Do you feel guilty yet? If not, you apparently don’t read women’s magazines. Every March and April they’re packed with “clean up and organize your life” articles. Stories with catchy titles like Spring Into Action — Tidy Up Your House. Or Wash Away Winter Blues. Or Banish Clutter Now; Otherwise We’ll Keep Torturing You With Articles Meant to Make you Feel Like A Slothful Bum. Personally, I’d rather read Why Clean? It Will Only Get Dirty Again Tomorrow.
Why do magazines publish these pieces? Because every spring millions of women have the same Pavlovian response: Guilt. Guilt quickly followed by a spending spree on periodicals and cleaning supplies. They grab every magazine in sight and, in a fit of post-New Year’s resolution fervor, vow to Martha Stewartize their homes.
Do these articles help? Do they unlock the sacred secret of “eat off your basement floor” womanhood? Hahahahahahaha. Pardon me — I’m sorry. I didn’t realize you were serious. (Guilt Springs Eternal continues here.)
My latest limerick was inspired by this week’s New York weather:
Wintry Woes
By Madeleine Begun Kane
In winter, a job I’d not pick
Is wielding an ice pick, when sick.
I abhor it, when well
And, when ill, well, it’s hell.
Oh my heavens, the hail’s coming quick!