The mounds of snow and ice around my house have finally shrunk to the place where they are only about three feet deep.

The gianormous storm that was responsible for them also tore the gutters off one side of my house, a condition that may have to wait until the spring melt before I can get someone to remedy it.

And so on.

I have been going through old columns looking for something I wrote, but have been writing them since June 1977 and never really kept track of their contents, so that may take a while.

However, I found a column from January 1994 that contained a list of things you could do to stave off boredom while waiting for the snow to melt, including:

(14) While standing and looking out your window, try your best to convince whoever is with you that the earth is suffering from severe global warming. Do this with a straight face.

The following came from another column written a week later:

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To all of you people who can’t wait for this time of year so you will be able to go skiing and snowmobiling and otherwise play in the cold and the snow (unless, of course, you are a child and don’t know any better):

May the fleas of a thousand camels form a circus and establish their winter quarters in your undershorts.

May your child’s hamster break out of its cage and make its way beneath the covers of your bed to find your toes at three o’clock in the morning.

May the hair cease to grow on your head and begin to flourish in your ears and nostrils.

May you be visited on Monday morning by Mike Wallace and a camera crew.

May you achieve the next-higher tax bracket by one dollar.

May you live in interesting times. (This is perhaps the direst malediction that can be laid by one Chinese upon another. It means something should happen to the other person that is so outrageous it could be turned into an American made-for-television movie.)

May you be immobilized and forced to watch and listen as Yasir Arafat recites from “Amy Fisher, My Story.”

May you arrive at your job and, after walking past every one of your co-workers, discover only then that you have tucked the back of your skirt into your pantyhose.

May the dread spirits of Mary Malone, her nine orphaned children and 13 banshees chase you shrieking so far into the hills that even the Almighty Himself cannot find you.

May the city snowplow visit your street after you have shoveled out your walk and driveway, covering in the process five bags of garbage which you will forget were there until the snow melts in early May, by which time the bags will have biodegraded themselves, but the contents won’t.

That about covers it, I think.

You and your damned snow. And the horse you rode in on.

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Two of those curses refer to people some of you may not remember, so we’ll update them:

May you be visited on Monday morning by a Fox News TV crew who wants to ask about your involvement with ACORN.

May you be immobilized and forced to watch and listen as Senate Majority Leader Harry Reid and Speaker of the House Nancy Pelosi read in their entirety both versions of the health care reform bill now being considered by Congress.

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Regarding the aforementioned exercise (14): Saying things with a straight face is something I have learned to do with great skill — probably the result of more than three decades spent writing about politicians and lawyers as a reporter. It came in handy recently.

Wendy and Slick Willie are two of my friends who once might have been referred to as “significant others,” but that is an obsolete term.

They don’t live together, it probably wouldn’t be appropriate to call them “partners” or “companions,” and they’re too mature for “boyfriend and girlfriend.” Let’s just say they’re “boogeyin’ buddies.”

Wendy told me that Willie went to an office where our mutual friend Petunia is employed to get some paperwork. (Hopefully, you’ve realized by now that I’m not calling any of these people by their real names.)

Petunia told Willie she’d already given it to his wife.

“Huh?” Willie asked with an expression I’ve seen on his face from time to time. “We’re not married.”

Petunia is absolutely the adorable sweetheart of the earth, and Wendy said she was quite embarrassed and flustered by her gaffe.

I told Wendy things like this happen, and I myself have been guilty of it.

When a friend of mine opened an office some years ago, he gave me biographical information to include in a story about it. On my own intiative, I added that, “He is married to the former Sally Strangeglove.”

My buddy called me the next day and said, “My wife is mad as hell at you.” When I asked why, he said, “You know how independent she is. She’s never taken my last name.”

Oops. The next time I saw her, she was well on her way to forgiving me. But then, she was neither the first, nor the last of my friends’ wives who have needed a few days to forgive me for something.

When I went to visit Petunia the next day, I was wearing my best straight face.

“Did you hear,” I asked her, “that Willie wrecked his car last night?”

“Willie?” she croaked with a face with that was anything but straight. “Slick Willie Zigafoose? What happened?”

I told her, “Wendy was chasing him down the driveway with a golf club, and he hit a tree! She just found out he’s got a wife!”

When Petunia finally stopped laughing and regained a measure of composure, she asked, “I’m never going to hear the last of this, am I?”

“Probably not for a while,” I said, “and from what I gather, neither is Willie.”