THOSE FRUSTRATING FLAKES

Impossibly fat flakes are sailing sideways outside my February window, each cumbersome crash-landing adding inches to the frozen tundra which was my lawn.  It would be helpful if the accumulation from last week’s storm had melted in time for the predicted foot of this new onslaught; but no.  The face of the grungy traffic-stained ice pile just keeps adding duplicitous cosmetic layers of white. Although deceivingly lovely, it qualifies distinctly as insult to injury.

Today is snow day number seven and this is getting really old.  Only two snow days are built into the school year and at this point, I expect we’ll be handing out sparklers to celebrate July 4^th with our freckled summertime students.  Some of my coworkers actually love these snow days.  I grow increasingly convinced of the premature senility of said coworkers.

My feelings of intolerance toward this winter grew exponentially and perhaps a bit unfairly last week during an ice storm on my husband’s birthday.  We were without power for only ten hours. Unfortunately during the first three of those hours, our finished basement was quietly filling with ice water while our comatose sump pump looked on in horror. Despite heroic bailing, a cooperative project involving neighbors collecting and running heavy-duty extension cords to someone’s whole house generator, and the continual running of countless fans and dehumidifiers, our home soon took on the convincing scent of a wet alpaca.  Air-freshening plug-ins were employed and at this morning’s juncture (six days later), the innocent fragrance of well-intentioned masking vanilla effectively makes me gag.  Surviving furniture is piled in the center of the room, nearly to the ceiling.  The carpets (which were heretofore the nicest quality in our house) are detached from their baseboard homes and curled unkindly toward the center of the room with their padding unceremoniously ripped from below. The diagnosis is grim and I fear the carpet’s ailment will likely be fatal.  Bags of ruined items have been sent out to the dumpster, leaving lots of work to be done. The whole thing is reminiscent of a war zone and my patience with winter has grown transparently thin.  If the power goes out again with the storm today, it is likely I will respond in an unhelpful manner. 

I should have mentioned one additional tidbit above.  During some of the most exciting water bailing and cord running of the aforementioned mayhem, there was an insistent knocking at our front door.  I answered with my hair standing on end (I had taken a cold and dark shower that morning in our powerless house.) My sweatpants were rolled fashionably up to my thighs, my winter boots peeking beneath my long wool socks, in my hand -a dripping wet bucket and upon my face -a crazed look.  A neighbor (already aware of our flooding plight) looked on sympathetically and with barely concealed amusement as she reported that one of our large ice-coated mulberry trees was leaning convincingly over their driveway and threatening to “take out” our backyard fence.  Jim had to divert his basement preservation attempts to climb up under the massive icy branches and attempt limb amputation by handsaw.  Timing is everything.  Never let it be said that the Shellys don’t know how to party.

One of the best reasons to take a school nurse position is to avoid driving in contrary snowy conditions.  I am not the world’s greatest driver to begin with (I know this about myself but will argue it vehemently if suggested by my husband.)

Driving at night in this year’s winter weather has become increasingly difficult.  My 52 year old eyes are just a small part of the problem.  The larger issue is the veritable minefield of potholes which has developed, seemingly overnight.  Some of these fissures are enormous, swallowing entire front ends.  Almost every time I venture outside, I see some poor sod stuck along the road with a flattened tire. My husband is just one of countless victims.

It is almost impossible to see these holes when blinded by the headlights of an oncoming car.  Seemingly out of nowhere, I hit an impressively deep hole last night. Most of the lights on my dashboard blinked simultaneously in a demonstration of protest and I was sure I’d be calling for assistance.  (In fact when asked last night, it occurred to me that I have NO IDEA if there is a spare tire in my trunk….) Somehow there was still air in my tire when I drove the car home.  I’m a little afraid to go out into the garage this morning to see if my luck (and the air) have held.

The widespread road damage being what it is, I don’t think there is any way to patch all these holes.   I’m wondering if it might make more sense to install some small air pressure machines, chocolate-containing vending machines, and supportive escape ramps inside the holes to make the cavernous ruts more user-friendly. 

This is the part of the writing when I start to feel guilty about whining.  I am, after all writing this in a warm and well-lit house and on a computer that is functioning. The clothing dryer is rumbling in the background and Aubrey’s favorite English classical radio station is streaming from the kitchen. Electrical access is a beautiful thing.  I’m going to put my 

chin up, ignore the scent of vanilla, and think about utilizing the two ugly bananas in my kitchen to bake something delicious.  Here’s hoping the power stays on until I lift those banana bars from the oven.