Ah, yes. It's that magical time of year when, after three months' exposure to the brisk winter air, all good Bermtopians' skin goes as dry as the Gobi Desert. Without the Mongols, thankfully.
That's me to the right. Hi, everyone!
And despite the regular administration of copious amounts of moisturizer, I itch like the dickens. It's getting to be a problem. Case in point:
We met friends for Happy Hour and dinner at a downtown watering hole Thursday night. In between the appetizers and Caesar salad, I started to itch insanely at a spot about 4 inches below my left armpit. It was relentless. I tried discreetly to shrug up and down against the back of the banquette for relief. I looked like I was getting ready to toss my cookies on what remained of the Thai chicken flatbread appetizer.
Scratch, for lack of a better word, that approach.
So I did the only thing I could do: Demurely excuse myself, beat a hasty retreat to the lady's room and lock myself in a stall. There, I furiously shoved my hand and arm up the front of my sweater and went at it to relieve said itch.
The ensuing action was somewhat reminiscent of "Alien."
I made it back just as the ribs were being served. Life, albeit itchy, is good.
But HERE'S what I'd really like to do when the itches set in: Whenever, I want to park my butt on floor, bring my leg up and get the the scratching deed done just like Ben. It's so much more efficient.
Bet I could do it if I tried.
For those of you sitting at the edge of your
The overall conditions on the ground in Bermtopia can be described in one word: Shitty.
The snow's melted and frozen, melted and frozen, melted and frozen (ok, I think you get picture -- but did I mention? the snow has melted and frozen several times?) AND now has been rained on,
|Sidewalk of Death: Abandon hope, all ye who enter here.|
|This is ice. This is The Enemy. If you have two legs -- and try to navigate this -- you are toast.|
Given the Nine-One-Four's southern-facing orientation, we have a welcome glimpse of grass and other precious vegetation. On our street, though, mostly everyone else is still coated in snow, which is now pitted and bruised gray and brown from numerous punches from snow plows and snow blowers.
Some of it slowly bleeds into street where it evaporates or coalesces into the aforementioned Sidewalks of Death. But sometimes, sometimes, it look likes this:
|Art-y but mostly lame|
April. My, how that rolls off the tongue.