I have just finished reading a book that caused me laugh. And not just laugh, but laugh heartily out loud. It's written by my good friend, Pearl. What Superman is to regular mortals, Pearl is to the blogging world. She has posted daily with wisdom and always great wit for several years now. Her newest book, The Second Book of Pearl, THE CATS, is available for purchase now by going to her site, Pearl- Why You Little...
The following post by Pearl is a sample of her wryly hilarious musings. Pearl's comments on her posts are just as hilarious as the posts themselves, so get your two cents in after you read this post. And get yourself a great Christmas present with her book. You'll love it.
And, in my first ever giveaway, leave a comment and I will draw a name this Sunday evening to win an autographed copy of The Second Book of Pearl. (Autographed by Pearl, not me!)
I’ve lived in the Upper Midwest for what has
been, oh, all my life now; and, as a citizen of this part of the world, I feel
I am obligated to speak regarding the duplicity of everyday objects and the
role that the weather plays in their treachery.
I refer, in this instance, to the sidewalk.
One expects, after all, certain things of a
sidewalk. That it be level, that it be
slightly rough, that one may walk along it without thought – these are not
unreasonable expectations of your average city sidewalk.
One also expects that said sidewalk will never be the cause
of us flying forward in an embarrassing and less-than-graceful manner,
requiring us to pick small rocks out of our palms.
One never expects the sidewalk of deceit.
Until winter.
As a lifelong resident of Minnesota, I must tell
you: The winter sidewalk is a place of
betrayal, of potential humiliation and the sudden need for a seamstress. Having
passed spring, summer, even fall without having given the sidewalk a second
thought, we are forced, come winter, to look down, to
give it our full attention.
And the sidewalk?
The sidewalk doesn’t appreciate being ignored.
Disregard her,
will you, for three out of four seasons?
Well, we’ll take care of that.
The sheen of an ice slick marks the course of a melt
going on somewhere uphill and awaits your ill-considered step. A poorly
shoveled path by your thoughtless and no doubt misanthropic neighbor stands
between you and the next patch of dry, almost grail-like cement. The very
pitch of a stretch of sidewalk, adorably askew in the summer, the massive roots
of an oak laughingly pushing the cement aside, now looks like an invitation to
a bruised tailbone.
The sidewalk, she laughs.
I considered all of this as I picked myself up the other
day, picking gravel from my flesh.
The sidewalk, I thought. I must
tell the people.
And so I have.
Warn the others.
And tell them Pearl sent you.
Pearl, Why You Little… is posted daily and runs the gamut
of short stories about the seasons, commuting via city bus, corporate
cubicle-ism, the abuse heaped upon her by her cats, and, infrequently, the
state of her laundry. Stop by!
