Snow-more

As I mentioned in my previous post, we’ve recently been dumped on by the Gods of snow.  And by dumped on, I of course mean we were scattered, smothered, covered, chunked, capped, and topped like a bunch of hashbrowns on a grill (SHOUT OUT for all my fellow Waffle House enthusiasts).  51” of snow later, I feel like I’ve learned a whole new set of “quiet time” coping mechanisms and I’ve confirmed that I am IN FACT not a winter person.  I like sunshine.  I like wearing skirts.  Without tights.  I can’t even remember what it feels like to be hot from the outdoors.  I seem to have blocked the misery of sub-Saharan heat and Baltimore summers, and have decided, in my head, that I miss sweating.  Ever meet a fat girl that likes to sweat?  Hi, I’m Lindsay.  I’m trying it out.  (Remind me I was into this in mid-July when the backs of my knees are sweating and my armpits are ruining yet another Michael Kors silk dress.) 

And this week has been like a rebirthing.  A screaming, kicking awakening into a dark, cold, chaotic world with malfunctioning snow-maintenance infrastructure (read: EPIC FAILURE AT SNOW REMOVAL, BALTIMORE).  We’ve all emerged on the other side of this snow storm carb-loaded, under-socialized, and hungover.  Our immune systems have been compromised; cookies and booze and a lack of Vitamin D have left us all looking a little peaked.  Our social skills have been reduced to something strangely reminiscent of a caged Chihuahua.  And for my poor friends with children—my heart goes out to you.  I know you’ve just reached your limits of good mommy.  And your kids might have learned how to make you dirty martinis. (Or you let them play with plastic bags their toys).  And, no.  I don’t judge you for this.

So this week has been a real feces storm—a shit-show of epic proportions.  Schools were closed for what felt like a century.  I didn't realize how much I valued being able to leave my house until I couldn't do it for a week.  I also never knew how much I could love two plastic chairs.  Two plastic chairs that served as a symbolic gesture to the world: If you PARK in my PARKING SPOT, I will MAIM YOU.  (And ironically enough, Baltimore respects this symbolic gesture MORE than most things...perhaps even human life? For a city with such a high murder rate, I'm shocked these chairs mean anything at all.)

And now, between the unplowed streets, the inevitable realignment my car will need from pounding these 4 foot potholes at 50 miles an hour, and the additional 45 minutes it has taken me to get ANYWHERE this week, I’m OVER IT.  The last three parking spots in EVERY parking lot are piled 10 feet high with frozen, brown doo-doo snow.  Snow so ugly you almost want to look away and dry heave.  A week later, it’s no longer the beautiful, pure, white stuff than blankets all surfaces in a magical, glittery way.  Oh no.  It’s been tainted now with all the pollution and garbage we humans produce.

Plus the snow is everywhere.  Still piled up.  Going nowhere fast.  I’ve filled my boots with snow all week attempting to leap over snow piles to get to the safety of shoveled sidewalk.  When I get to the end of a street, I’ve learned how to pray.  Pray hard.  Because when I attempt to turn left, it truly requires an act of god to see around the 12 foot pile of that doo-doo snow that the plows have so graciously removed from the streets and left in one giant very inconvenient spot. 

And I thought we were in a new age of environmental sustainability… a time when the little cars win.  When the hatchbacks and the 2-door sedans get the better parking spots and spend less at the pump.  When the hippies get big fat tax write-offs for buying hybrids, assuming the hippies are filing taxes these days.  Turns out, not only did Toyota recall all those Prius steering columns this week, but when you’ve got 51” of snow on the ground, the ONLY cars that get ANY action are diesel fueled beasts with giant tires.  Cars that behave more like subdivisions than cars.  Cars that give people superpowers in snowstorms, like seeing over 12-foot piles of doo-doo snow.  (And no offense to my SUV-driving friends, but have you noticed the assholes that drive these things!?  Well, actually, offense intended.  I’ve almost been taken out like five times this week by these suckers. I INTEND TO OFFEND.)  It’s been a rough week for the environmentalism movement.  I think the snow-removing moguls actually invented new chemicals this week, not replaced them with vegetable or soy-based alternatives.  But hey, we learned how to melt snow without heat, didn’t we? 

So I beg you, sweet baby Jesus in your golden-fleece diapers…Snow-more.  I can’t take it.  I’ll pack up my 4 bedroom home in an environmentally-deplorable 18-wheeler and head South (READ: I’ll hire some poor schmucks to pack up my 4 bedroom home, and bill you later for my doublewide in South Florida).  I’m ready for some sun and some sand and a drink I actually WANT to put ice in.  Just get me to April showers and May flowers.  I'll be good.  Really, really good.  Promise.