“At sunset, we made love like sea otters. Why can’t I have that day?” –Bill Murray as Phil Connors in “Groundhog Day.”

So, Baltimore, did you survive Snowpocalypse 2010? Girls, how many inches did you get? See how I made a sex joke out of it? Some people pray for snow days for this very reason. Your Dirty Girl survived. I did it alone, too. I had lots of free time since I am currently a free agent, so to speak. I’m actually pretty grateful to be single today. Marathon fucking your way through a blizzard? Somewhat over-rated by my own recollections. (more after the jump!)

Oh sure, we all have these hot fantasies about being trapped in a snowstorm with certain people, like Antonio Banderas, Gerard Butler or Javier Bardem or if you’re a guy, Megan Fox or Keira Knightly. The fact is, fantasies are generally much better than reality and don’t leave you prone to a raging bladder infection later. Take a certain week of my life in February 1994.

My ex-husband and I were still pretty much honeymooners having married just two and a half years before. We had a healthy sex life that had quieted down from three times a day,* to a much more manageable two or three times a week. We were both working hard at our careers and too busy go back to our previously exhausting sex life. I was grateful for the reprieve.

The only time our routine changed back to the primal, gotta-have-you-now ways was during vacation. My hubby would get that look in his eyes that would let me know that sight-seeing would wait. Many of our vacations were spent in our hotel room; I still don’t really remember what a certain town in Delaware really looked like during the day. The only time I saw it was on our nightly crawl to dinner after a day of sexual gymnastics with my own personal Peter North.

Back in that tundra-like February of ’94, my husband and I were spending our first winter in our first home. We’d selected a picturesque townhouse on a river in Eastern Baltimore County. It was quite lovely the summer we settled on our home with all the boats, ducks and greenery. The winter was wet, violent and cold. Our private community was like a hostile outpost in some arctic wasteland. County and state plows didn’t touch it, we learned the hard way, because it was a privately-owned road. And because of a mix up with the plowing contractor, our community became a snow-covered version of hell.

My husband didn’t mind. He had been working from home a lot thanks to the fine-tuning of telecommuting. We were one of the first houses on our block to have a cable modem. My husband was a computer geek who worked for the government. When he was told he could stay home from the pending storm, I saw a familiar glint in his eye that said, “Your ass is mine.” I was recently unemployed. My ass didn’t stand a chance against the Abominable Sex Monster lurking in my husband’s body.

Oh, sure, the first two days of non-stop fucking were fun. They always are. When you are crazy about someone, it brings back memories of the first few times you started fucking and how great you felt. You have recaptured a piece of yourselves that was pretty special and still is. Then you lose adequate hydration. Then certain parts of your anatomy need to be packed in ice for full recovery. Thank god you’ve got all that snow outside and someone wouldn’t mind going out there and getting it. He even “generously” offers to pack you in it so you’ll be ready for day three. You have entered a “sexpocalypse.”

Day three is a daze. Jesus Christ at the ballet where is that fucking snow plow? You are no longer saying, “Oh God, I’m coming,” but more like, “Oh God, he’s coming and I think he wants to have more sex!” as you dive under the covers and do your best and most-convincing snoring session. And then he taps your shoulder.

By day four, you are not making breakfast with that frying pan and bread knife in your hands, you are holding them up in the air and telling your husband, in no uncertain terms, you will go Lorena Bobbitt on his willy if he comes near you again without underpants on. The pan is caste iron, after all and may do more damage than just a fucking concussion—if you get what I’m telling you. And my lawyer is going to use the insane plea in my defense.

On day five, it burns to pee. It’s good to know you do in fact have a urinary tract infection because you can finally get to the doctors as the roads have at last been plowed by the missing contractor. You are done being plowed by your over-sexed husband. Seems the whole mix up was on the contractor’s end, not your Homeowner’s Association, who has in fact been paid up with him for two years. He’ll be the next victim of the bread knife.

Ironically, the weather forecast is calling for six to eight more inches. How many more inches can you handle?