It’s Snowing in Hell

Maryland sucks for many reasons. First, there’s the decline of Baltimore into the world’s largest shooting gallery. The taxes are flat out murder. And the weather is a fucking joke.

The weather in Maryland is more erratic than Margot Kidder gobbling diet pills, chasing them with Everclear, and downing a bottle of wine.

The spring is actually enjoyable because you know summer is going to suck.

Summer time is bullshit. One day it’s hot as balls, the next it’s about 60 degrees and raining. You get about two weeks of nice weather and then you feel like you’re trooping through the hills of Laos.

Autumn is nice, for about three hours.

Winter brings lots of nothing. Or fucking blizzards and cold weather that would put frost on a polar bear’s balls.

The very worst part of the weather in Maryland is when it snows. Ages ago, during a legitimate blizzard, Marylanders rushed into stores and bought milk and toilet paper. Now it’s a joke, except people take it seriously. They are imbeciles.

Schools close due to two inches of snow. This past September they closed BECAUSE IT WAS GOING TO RAIN A LOT. It didn’t. So, we get lots of snow days in this hellhole, and that means my children are home.

Since I’m “working from home”, Mrs. Fozz can still go “out in the field.” I think she sits at a Panera eating overpriced salads and laughing at my plight.

Sidenote: If I could I would burn down every Panera in the world. I fucking hate them. They’re packed with people who shouldn’t be wearing yoga pants; elderly people who get 23 refills on their water; and middle management shitstains who occupy entire tables and hold meetings. And there are kids running around being obnoxious.

So, what happens when my kids stay home and don’t have to attend school? Plenty of bad, sorrowful events that age me rapidly. Here is an hour by hour, kind of, journal that does its best to chronicle a snow day.

Sidenote: People who use the word “journal” as a verb should be forced to live in the sewer system. Fuck yourself, okay? The only reason you tell people you “journal” is to appear intelligent, different, and edgy. You are not. You are the equivalent of the green pus oozing from a chancre sore on the tip of a hyena’s dirty dick.

7:00

Children rush into my room; scream they are off and immediately start a fight at the foot of my bed. I have seen my two oldest emerge from a fight bloody and bruised because one wanted to wear a particular knit hat.

8:00

I ask someone to shovel the walk – remember it’s about three inches of snow – I get more excuses than there are individual snowflakes on the ground. I shovel the walk and come inside for coffee.

8:15

As I lift the first cup of coffee to my lips, Mrs. Fozz indicates I need to clean off her car. Why? She’s not fucking crippled. Yes, after I finish my coffee. Nope. THE SNOW NEEDS TO BE CLEARED RIGHT NOW MY FATHER CLEANED THE CAR OFF TWO SECONDS AFTER THE FIRST SNOWFLAKE HIT! Her father is a fucking OCD lunatic.

8:45

The boys have converted the first floor into a fort and the dog has been let in, but she is soaking wet from the snow. For some reason she is covered in mud. I noticed someone has gotten the Air Fryer out and attempted to cook an entire chicken breast in it. A pan on the stove holds the carbonized remains of eggs.

9:30

“I’m going out, Fozz. Can you: vacuum the house, fold the laundry, shovel the back porch, empty and load the dishwasher, feed the kids, and host all of the neighborhood brats who will show up demanding food?”

10:00

Sixth cup of coffee. I’m thinking about bolstering the seventh cup with bourbon. I check my email – 37 unanswered. Also, four texts from my wife asking, “how are things?” Inside the fort, the dog has taken a mighty shit.

11:15-11:23

All three boys go out into the snow to sled. The youngest returns bloody and crying with the other two behind them saying he’s a pussy. The little guy’s head is soaking wet and his face is a combination of blood, snot, melted snow, and mud.

Noon

I burn a pizza, make ramen. Complaints all around. I tell them all to fuck off. Throw a can of tuna and can opener at them. “Figure it the fuck out.”

1:00-2:30

The younger one curls up in front of the television, asks me for my phone at least 5 times. The older boys are upstairs playing video games, and then alternating with various fights. The oldest winds up breaking an Xbox controller, announces he’s going to Wal-Mart. Blessed silence.

3:00-3:13

I manage to write a paragraph for one of my asshead clients. The youngest has mown down a sleeve of crackers and cookies. The dog wakes up from a nap, destroys a cardboard box and an old football. The two oldest go outside to see if they can stand in the snow barefoot for 15 minutes. I encourage that because I hate them.

3:30-4:30

Laundry folded while watching Letterkenny. Vacuum up crumbs and torn pieces of cardboard. Ignore BBQ sauce spilled on hard wood floors as it’s now dried and crusty. Think about the first cocktail of the night, which I will drink out of a bucket.

5:30

Exhausted. The house is fucked. Empty dishes, melted snow everywhere, winter clothes scattered throughout the room. The blanket fort has been demolished and I think the dog has runaway. I go into hurricane mode, get everything back in order.

Mrs. Fozz calls from driveway needing help unloading groceries. My sons disappear like rats. She’s had a long day and wishes she could be “home on days like this and snuggle with the boys.” I think she might be high.

6:00

Showered and shaved, I feel human again. Walk down the steps and wife says, “So how did the boys do with their remote learning today?”

Yup, completely forgot about that. Who needs school anyway?