Mother Nature has been stretching her limbs this week.

On Tuesday, we had an earthquake.  At least, that’s what I was told, because Lord knows, I didn’t feel a thing.  What I did experience was mild to moderate irritation that the news pre-empted General Hospitalto tell me that a handful of people had felt the ground move for approximately six seconds across the state.  Here is what I know:  you don’t promise me that Alan Quartermaine is going to make his big return to GH this week and then pre-empt the show to tell me about a few seismic waves in the Earth’s crust.  Honestly, these news anchors need to get their priorities straight.

I made it through Tuesday only to find that on Wednesday, all anyone could talk about was Hurricane Irene.  Lively debates were carried on about whether it would be a category two or category three storm when it hit New England.  I participated in none of these debates, because quite frankly, I didn’t care.

When it comes to natural disasters, Jason and I have very different approaches.  He is a “prepare for the worst and hope for the worst” kind of guy and I’m a “prepare for nothing and hope it passes us by” kind of gal.  We have been driving each other crazy all week.  He’s been visiting stores all across the state in search of ‘D’ batteries.  I stopped by Stop-N-Shop on the way home one day to pick up what I thought we might need to weather the storm – Doritos.  In an effort to be a team player, I did buy two bags – one cheese, one cool ranch.  I figured if the power goes out for a few days, we won’t starve.  (Two bags. See?)

Our conversations have gotten more ridiculous as the week had progressed.

Jason (nailing plywood across the picture window): “Do you think your mother has any ‘D’ batteries?

Me (painting my toenails in OPI’s ‘You’re a Pisa Work’): “Yup.”

Jason (really struggling to hold the plywood up): “Do you think she’d lend us some for the big flashlight?”

Me (admiring my pretty pink toes): “Not before a hurricane.”

I did wind up calling my mother, who of course had batteries, and of course would lend them to me. “Jason wants them before the big storm hits,” I said, sighing.  Mom was sympathetic.  She herself had run out for supplies earlier in the week - Smartfood and Twizzlers.

At least I know where I get it from!

The following is a true story: I found out on Mother’s Day that my sister-in-law’s sister-in-law (or, my brother-in-law’s sister) was reading my blog when her water broke.  Some time later, on Easter, Arthur Henry Hallas was born.  I like to think that Pam’s water broke because she was laughing so hard.  That’s what I’ve been telling people, anyway.

Besides  relishing in the thrill of helping to bring a new life in to this world, I've been thinking: there’s a huge marketing opportunity somewhere in this, I’m sure of it.  Let’s think about some tried-and-true methods for inducing labor, and why reading my blog is better.

1. Foolin’ around.  That’s right, I’m sure everyone has heard that a little nookie in the ninth month will induce labor. Let me tell you about my friend Renee.  Her doctor told her this very same thing when she was ready to burst three days past her due date.  So she went home, struggled into her sexiest pretty pink nightie, and waited for her hubby to come home.  She happened to catch a glimpse of herself in the mirror, belly sticking out like the ball at EpcotCenter wrapped in pink silk, and started laughing hysterically. She immediately went in to labor.  So it kind of worked, but she wound up having to cut herself out of the nightie before it cut off her circulation.  Wouldn’t it just be easier to read my blog?
2. Hanging curtains.  My mother swears that someone told her this old wives’ tale and it’s the only reason why my sister and I were ever born at all.  I just find it sad that my mother was doing strenuous housework right before going in to labor.  Reading my blog is more relaxing, and doesn’t require heavy lifting.
3. Eating spicy foods.  I don’t know about anyone else, but sometimes spicy food is not the best thing for my system if I’m expecting to go out anywhere in public, like, say, a hospital to push out a baby.  In fact, I like to avoid spicy foods before going to work, the grocery store, church, out in the yard, or to an amusement park.  I say can the taco idea and read my blog – the end result will be a lot less embarrassing!
4. Practice yoga.  I want you to picture a calm, meditative woman, nine months pregnant, seated in Padmasana (Lotus Pose, or Cross-Legged, for you non-yoga types).  Now I want you to tell me how that woman is going to getup out of that pose.  Reading my blog does not require you to weirdly contort your body until you are sent to the hospital for ripping your calf muscles.
5. Take a bumpy car ride.  Sure, I don’t have children, but I’ve known many pregnant women.  Not a one of them has ever bragged about their bladder of steel.  Reading my blog will not cause you to have an accident in the passenger seat of your car.

The evidence is clear: if you want to induce labor at home, the safest, most effective way to do so is to read my blog.  And I know one new mom that can vouch for that.

Congratulations, Pam and Jim!

Jason and I are not romantic types.  (Maybe he thinks he is, but I have never come home to a bedroom full of rose petals, a candlelit dinner for two, and Isaac Hayes crooning in the background, so in my book, he’s not.)  I am the typical farmer’s daughter and think that Valentine’s Day is the perfect time to refresh the poison in the shed to kill any wayward mice that might have the audacity to seek shelter from the freezing cold in there.  So you can imagine my surprise when Jason told me he thought we should do something nice on Valentine’s Day.

He let on that he was planning on getting me a gift, which threw me in to a panic.  I currently am not allowed to drive and I hate to impose on my carpool buddy, who has already been chauffeuring me around for three weeks above and beyond the call of friendship.  How was I going to get a gift?

I decided to shred his old ties that I hate and glue them in to a pretty mosaic portrait of Quentin Tarantino, Jason’s favorite director.  I waited until he had to leave the house to cover a town council meeting and got to shredding and gluing.  Apparently, I had completely forgotten that I had gotten a ‘D’ in shredding and gluing in kindergarten, because the end result looked nothing like Quentin Tarantino and everything like a giant three-dimensional hairball. Kind of smelled like one, too.  Frustrated, I decided to wrap it up anyway and tell him it was from the cats. @!$!! Valentine’s Day!

I had no card, either, but having excelled at crayon work in my preschool days, I felt confident I could come up with something nice.  I colored a bunch of hearts on construction paper and wrote a poem:

Roses are red
Violets are blue
I love you more than Seinfeld
No soup for you!

Okay, poetry has never been my strong point, but at least the card was done.

Valentine’s Day arrived and Jason was in full romantic mode.  He started the day by bringing me a cup of coffee, which, in my world, is just as romantic as a dozen roses, especially when I can’t get it for myself these days.  We watched reruns of Forensic Files together, which is my favorite show.  What a sweet guy!  He gave me my gift (Holstein-patterned galoshes) and made me dinner, a plateful of scrambled eggs.  (He’s working on expanding his culinary skills.)  He was protectively apologetic when he opened my gift to him (“Don’t look, honey!  The cats ate the gift you made me and threw it back up. I’m so sorry!”)  All in all, it was a very dreamy sort of day.

Hey, I warned you.  We’re not romantics.  But we make it work.

I have long since accepted the fact that my ancestors chose to settle in New England (why this was more appealing than, say, South Carolina, is something I will never be able to ask my great-great-popouli).  Hey, snow happens.  Usually I can just dust off my Uggs, pull on my wool-lined gloves, and deal with it.  But when the skies part and dump 26 inches of what the hospitals refer to as “heart attack snow,” I tend to get a little testy.

I was trapped in the house all day with my loving husband, and we were snapping at each other by 10 AM.  This was largely due to the fact that we couldn’t agree as to which one of us had the monumentally terrible idea to TiVo The Imaginarium of Doctor Parnassus, which turned out to be a steaming dung heap of a movie (just for the record, it was his idea.)  We were outside by 11, trying to clear the front stoop, since the snow was now so high we were struggling to open the screen door.

Within three minutes of beginning to dig, the head on my snow shovel flew off, planting itself in the middle of the yard.  
“Do we have another shovel in the shed?”  Jason asked.  I looked out at the shed, with its roof barely visible in the drifts.
“Why don’t you go check?” I said, smiling sweetly, already heading for the house.  It was becoming evident that the two of use couldn't handle all of this togetherness during stressful times, and I wanted to rummage through the basement and see if I could find any alcohol.  (Sadly, the answer was no.)

I was baking cookies and humming a tune, feeling a little calmer at the prospect of freshly baked junk food, when Jason came in looking rather sheepish.  It seems he tried to move my car to see how bad the driveway really was, and it was now permanently stuck until Spring. Why he chose to experiment with my car, I do not know, and I might have screamed this at the top of my lungs.  He might have chosen this moment to hide all of the sharp utensils in the house in reaction to my reaction.  What I can confirm is that we immediately called someone to plow the driveway, rolled over a CD to pay for it, and it was worth every penny.  We settled in for an afternoon of warm chocolate chip cookies and cold glares at each other.

The good news is we made it through the rest of the day without calling any divorce lawyers, and once the snow stopped falling, we were even able to joke about the day a little bit.  And I was inspired to start a new short story called “Trapped” about a happy couple that has to try and survive a huge winter blizzard, much as we did.

Make no mistake, though. It’s a horror story.

It has become increasingly clear to me each day that I am married that men just don't get women. My husband spends most of his days puzzled, frustrated, and confused as he tries to figure out just what he has done wrong this time. So, for his benefit, I offer you ten perfectly logical insights into the mind of a woman.

1.  Yes, we are perfectly capable of changing a tire or killing a bug. Sometimes, we just want you to do it for us. Everybody likes to be taken care of once in a while. 

2.  You're the one who wanted the cat. That's why it's your job to get up when it yarks up a hairball in the bedroom at 5 AM.

3.  We are always more generous with others than we are with ourselves. This is why we forego the shampooing that will only cost $5 extra at the hairdresser, and then tip her 50%.

4.  Sometimes we just want to be left alone. It's not that we don't love you. We just don't want to be joined at the hip.

5.  Probably ten of our Facebook friends are former boyfriends. Clearly it wasn't serious, because we're with you, not them. 

6.  Our sister is our best friend. We have known and loved her a lot longer than we have known and loved you. You are never, ever, allowed to criticize her.

7.  Don't criticize her kids, either.

8.  This does not go both ways. We absolutely will make fun of you when talking to our sisters. 

9.  Sometimes we are having a "fat for me" day. These are the days when we know we're not fat, we just feel a little bloated. Don't suggest we join a gym on these days. Don't tell us we're perfect the way we are. Just point out all the other people that we are skinner than ... even if we're not.

10.  Is your laundry done? Is the house clean? Did we pick up the martial arts movie out of the Redbox even though Jackie Chan gives us the dry heaves? Then yes, we love you. Now be quiet and clean up that hairball.

I was just reading an online article about dating tips (only because I like to read, whether it's tips on dating or the back of a ketchup packet) and really, these people writing these self-help for singles articles are ridiculous.  They are LYING to you, ladies!  I remember being single, and NONE of these suggestions really work.  For example, they say to meet a man, go to:

1. Church.  Sure, you will see lots of men at church.  Accompanied by their wife and children.  If you do happen across the rare single man in the pew next to you and you do hit it off, remember: now you have to keep going to church.  Is it really worth it?

2.  The Supermarket.  The only guy I've met at the supermarket that struck up a conversation with me actually opened with the line "Hey, I like your melons."  This is not the kind of man with whom I want a long- term relationship!

3.  The Local Bookstore.  The theory here is that if you go somewhere of interest to you, you will meet someone with whom you already share a common interest.  It's a lie, ladies.  Have you seen some of the creeps that hang around the stacks at Barnes & Noble?  The men who go there to find a good book are really only interested in finding a good book, not cruising for chicks.  Plus, if you're an avid reader like me, you yourself will have your nose stuck in a novella and quickly shush Prince Charming if he happens to ask you to direct him to the biographies.

If you want to meet a man, here's where you really should hang out:

1.  The Bar.  Time-tested and true, this is the place to find a guy.  If you flirt shamelessly and act a little drunk, chances are, you won't be going home alone that night!  And really, half the time those one night stands DO pan out to a long-term relationship.  Unfortunately, it's usually with a drunk.

2.  Work.  I hate saying that, because this is a Human Resources nightmare, but really, you spend more time at work than anywhere else.  And you're working with people who (presumably) share the same career goals and interests and have the same problems with corporate as you do.  Just never, ever, date your boss or your subordinate.  That would be very bad.

3.  Online.  Although there is some social stigma attached to this, it's rapidly becoming more and more acceptable, especially as more people do it.  Just be smart about it, ladies.  Don't lie about your age, because if you do meet Mr. Right, you will eventually have to tell him you are a liar.  Don't use an old photo or your "thin" shots if you've put on a few (40) pounds.  You will only get your feelings hurt when you do meet.  And be wary of those who would lie to you.  If his profile photo makes him look like a Calvin Klein model, he's lying (and possibly looking to scam you).  If he says he's 6' 2" and you can see his grandmother towering over him in his profile pic, he's lying. And if he has a white band of skin on the finger where a wedding band should be, he is a liar, liar, pants on fire!

I hope these tips have been helpful for all my single friends.  I will now resume my  life as a smug married.