I don’t know why I keep staring at it, this godawful snow that’s keeping me home instead of traveling to D.C. tomorrow. I’m helplessly pissed, yet I can’t turn away. It’s like a car wreck.
Where did the 60 degree days of early January go? I know it’s Pennsylvania, but come on, why did the weather decide to act normal this weekend and not the next? It’s been so long since this middle-aged, boring wife got away without a husband and kids in tow. I was really looking forward to this one weekend when I’d dance and talk smart with my girlfriends and let strangers buy me drinks, eat pancakes at Eastern Market and witness a peace protest.
Blame global warming, El Nino, or the carnal thoughts I had the night before, but it won’t get me any closer to my friends. Neither will driving since me driving in snow is like putting ice skates on a dog. You’d think growing up in Minnesota would prepare me for times like this, but unlike the guys in winter beards with snowblades attached to the front of their pickup trucks, plowing driveways like they’re NASCAR drivers, I don’t like the slipping, the sliding, the spinning wheels and the inability to stop on a dime. I’m a card-carrying member of the White Knuckle Driver’s Association and no amount of free liquor and promise of debauchery could convince me to relinquish my membership.
The kid next door is trying to shovel the sidewalk, but the snow keeps blowing right back where it was. He doesn’t have a hat on and usually I’d call that stupid, but he’s scooping the snow from our driveway as well, so I don’t care what he does or doesn’t have on his head. That’s his own mother’s problem.
The wind is picking up clumps of snow fallen on tree branches and slamming them on to cars, the porch, and everyone passing by. Snow devils swirl around a million miles an hour and flit from yard to yard until crashing into a house or light pole. The sky lightens and darkens and lightens again, but with lake effect snow the sun can shine and shine and it’ll keep snowing anyway.
My feet are freezing. My mood is as raw as the 10 below zero windchill. There’d better be plenty of wine in this house.