December 22, 2008
My So-Called Blizzard
I'm sure you all heard something about the HUGE WORLD-ENDING, SOUL-SUCKING WINTER STORM that hit the Midwest last week. I was a little disappointed, as I didn't have my soul sucked AND I still had to go to work. Double-buzz-kill!
We've got about a foot of snow total, which is unimpressive to this survivor -- and enjoyer -- of The Blizzard of '79. I should have anticipated being let down. They kept pushing back the start time of the so-called blizzard, and we never get as many inches as the weather talking-heads threaten us with.
When I woke up to pee at 2:15 a.m. Friday (I had hot cocoa before bed), I looked outside to see a mere dusting of snow, like powered sugar on a bundt cake. So I was surprised to see another 5 inches by the time Husband and I got up at 5:30 a.m.
Before I could feed the dogs, I had to shovel a path across the patio from the kitchen door to the edge of the lawn. You see, I need to keep an eye on the idiots in the yard because they have recently discovered the delicacy that is frozen poop. I couldn't be prouder.
Mid-first-shovel-full-of-snow, I realized that we would, indeed, be driving over to Mom and Dad's to clear their snow as well. See, I had called Dad the night before. Well, I had called Mom, but Dad answered, which is always a shock.
PW: Hey, um, you know how they're predicting a foot of snow tonight?
Dad: Who is this?
PW: Your middle daughter.
Dad: Oh! My favorite!
PW: Yeah. Anyway, I just wanted to let you know that, if we get more than, say, four inches, Husband and I will be over in the morning to clear your driveway.
Dad: Oh. Why?
PW: So you don't die of a grabber in the driveway.
Dad: Oh! That's nice! I'd always thought you were just waiting for me to die!
PW: Yeah, well, not in the driveway. It's so cliche. I'm hoping you'll die in some bizarre home repair accident or weapons malfunction so I can blog it.
Dad: What's "blog?"
PW: Nevermind. So I'll call you in the morning and let you know if we're coming.
Dad: Okay. We're usually up by eight.
PW: Eight o'clock?! Who are you -- Paris Hilton?!
Dad: What time do you get up?
PW: Five-thirty!
Dad: Oh.
PW: Anyway, if you wake up to a snowblower, that's us.
Dad: Okay! Thanks!
Needless to say, he slept through the whole thing, probably because he was sleeping on his "good ear."
Comments
Never get as many inches as advertised, do you?
Posted by: Marty at December 22, 2008 03:58 PM