RICK Z AND THE SHACK NASTY'S
No, I’m not talking about a punk rock band. It’s that condition during late January that my sweet husband has come to, on his days off, walking from window to window, looking out at the snow and muttering under his breath or flopping down in his chair and examining his eyelids from the insides. He’s deliriously happy when the mail comes; bringing little poufy packages filled with fluffy hooky things.
“Oh look at this one. Oh, I never thought of that. Ha! I’ve got some of that stuff!”
It’s not about the cold and not even about the snow. The man was born and raised in Anchorage, Alaska, for Pete’s sake. He envisions the ponds covered in feet of ice and snow and those poor fishies underneath missing him. Laughing themselves silly in between shivers because the great one is not taunting them with tantalizing wiggly, colorishous ‘things’ that simply MUST be bit.
And please do not use ‘shack nasty’s and PMS interchangeably. PMS is backed by natural hormones. It’s normal! And the old thing about “if Mama ain’t happy, ain’t nobody happy.” Ha! With the shack nasty’s, if the fisherperson (see I am being PC) ain’t happy, it’s a nuclear winter!
By the way all Y’all out in the East, get out your snow blowers and shovels and DEAL with it! You’ve seen snow before!! You don’t hear the media types getting all doe eyed and super sympathetic with us in the Midwest up to our armpits in snow!!! Oh my sounds like the shack nasty’s.