I have long since accepted the fact that my ancestors chose to settle in New England (why this was more appealing than, say, South Carolina, is something I will never be able to ask my great-great-popouli). Hey, snow happens. Usually I can just dust off my Uggs, pull on my wool-lined gloves, and deal with it. But when the skies part and dump 26 inches of what the hospitals refer to as “heart attack snow,” I tend to get a little testy.
I was trapped in the house all day with my loving husband, and we were snapping at each other by 10 AM. This was largely due to the fact that we couldn’t agree as to which one of us had the monumentally terrible idea to TiVo The Imaginarium of Doctor Parnassus, which turned out to be a steaming dung heap of a movie (just for the record, it was his idea.) We were outside by 11, trying to clear the front stoop, since the snow was now so high we were struggling to open the screen door.
Within three minutes of beginning to dig, the head on my snow shovel flew off, planting itself in the middle of the yard.
“Do we have another shovel in the shed?” Jason asked. I looked out at the shed, with its roof barely visible in the drifts.
“Why don’t you go check?” I said, smiling sweetly, already heading for the house. It was becoming evident that the two of use couldn't handle all of this togetherness during stressful times, and I wanted to rummage through the basement and see if I could find any alcohol. (Sadly, the answer was no.)
I was baking cookies and humming a tune, feeling a little calmer at the prospect of freshly baked junk food, when Jason came in looking rather sheepish. It seems he tried to move my car to see how bad the driveway really was, and it was now permanently stuck until Spring. Why he chose to experiment with my car, I do not know, and I might have screamed this at the top of my lungs. He might have chosen this moment to hide all of the sharp utensils in the house in reaction to my reaction. What I can confirm is that we immediately called someone to plow the driveway, rolled over a CD to pay for it, and it was worth every penny. We settled in for an afternoon of warm chocolate chip cookies and cold glares at each other.
The good news is we made it through the rest of the day without calling any divorce lawyers, and once the snow stopped falling, we were even able to joke about the day a little bit. And I was inspired to start a new short story called “Trapped” about a happy couple that has to try and survive a huge winter blizzard, much as we did.
Make no mistake, though. It’s a horror story.
I was trapped in the house all day with my loving husband, and we were snapping at each other by 10 AM. This was largely due to the fact that we couldn’t agree as to which one of us had the monumentally terrible idea to TiVo The Imaginarium of Doctor Parnassus, which turned out to be a steaming dung heap of a movie (just for the record, it was his idea.) We were outside by 11, trying to clear the front stoop, since the snow was now so high we were struggling to open the screen door.
Within three minutes of beginning to dig, the head on my snow shovel flew off, planting itself in the middle of the yard.
“Do we have another shovel in the shed?” Jason asked. I looked out at the shed, with its roof barely visible in the drifts.
“Why don’t you go check?” I said, smiling sweetly, already heading for the house. It was becoming evident that the two of use couldn't handle all of this togetherness during stressful times, and I wanted to rummage through the basement and see if I could find any alcohol. (Sadly, the answer was no.)
I was baking cookies and humming a tune, feeling a little calmer at the prospect of freshly baked junk food, when Jason came in looking rather sheepish. It seems he tried to move my car to see how bad the driveway really was, and it was now permanently stuck until Spring. Why he chose to experiment with my car, I do not know, and I might have screamed this at the top of my lungs. He might have chosen this moment to hide all of the sharp utensils in the house in reaction to my reaction. What I can confirm is that we immediately called someone to plow the driveway, rolled over a CD to pay for it, and it was worth every penny. We settled in for an afternoon of warm chocolate chip cookies and cold glares at each other.
The good news is we made it through the rest of the day without calling any divorce lawyers, and once the snow stopped falling, we were even able to joke about the day a little bit. And I was inspired to start a new short story called “Trapped” about a happy couple that has to try and survive a huge winter blizzard, much as we did.
Make no mistake, though. It’s a horror story.
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