While it's been more than a year that The Frontier has begun to feel like home, I still have occassional periods where I miss Virginia - the DC area in particular - deeply. Fall is one of those times.
I miss the Association of University Women's annual used booksale at the McLean community center. I miss the National Book Fair. I miss the storybook fall weather and landscapes - The Frontier is much too dry to produce much in the way of spectacular fall colors. I miss the Taste of Bethesda festival - one of my first introductions to what became a long list of "my favorite things" when I first attended 12 years ago. I miss the mass (and usually misguided) hysteria-disguised-as-loyalty regarding the Redskins. Here people root for Denver or San Diego or, sometimes, Seattle - trying to adopt a home team loyalty for teams that play hundreds of miles away.
Most of all, I miss loving fall without having to dread the onset of winter. Winters in the Mid-Atlantic are often a breath of gratitude for relief from the onslaught of soggy, sordid, steamy August weather. Conversely, winters in The Frontier are exactly the weather people attempt to avoid (at least those who give little regard for The Frontier's "Greatest Snow on Earth.") The coming of winter looms over every piece of fall, casting long shadows as the days fade from brilliant sunshine to dull, slate gray skies.
The Frontier has slowly become home - at least for now - and I'm okay with that. But once in awhile - during the golden days of September and October - I miss the East Coast falls that I once anticipated with great excitement.
Showing posts with label Weather. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Weather. Show all posts
Sunday, September 19, 2010
Tuesday, October 27, 2009
One of These Days Is Not Like the Others
This morning, I was woken from a fitful, light sleep by Pebbles gagging and projectile vomiting (1 hour and 45 minutes after she ate). Her acid reflux seems to be getting worse, not better ... and seems to be made worse when I eat vegetables, some fruits, whole grains and beans. In other words, if I eat crap, she's fine. Lovely.
I was too nervous to lie her down again, so I dozed and she slept on my chest until it was well past time to get up. That was the second problem.
The third problem came after I fed her and snuggled with her far too long (she's warm, the living room most definitely is not) - making me even later. That wasn't so much the problem as falling down the stairs with Pebbles in my arms was. Fortunately, it was only the last half of the stairs. Fortunately, my left hip and my right elbow took most of the fall (it's always my left hip!). Fortunately, I didn't drop Pebbles, just scared the living daylights out of her.
She cried. I sat there stunned, wind knocked out of me. Woodstock (whom Himself had just gotten up) cried because "Mamma's hurt. Fall down da stairs." (after she asked, "What's wrong honey?")
From that point on, it was pure chaos. The one day I forget to obsessively stalk the weather and it snows. Woodstock, already the world's pokiest eater, was even pokier than normal (of course, because I was late). It snowed harder.
I finally left the house, 20 minutes late. I took a different way to work than usual, avoiding the bench where the snow tends to be worse. It was snowing hard and I missed the flashing lights of a school zone. Unfortunately, the Sheriff's Deputy out this morning with his radar gun, did not.*
He poked his head in my window - "you were speeding in a school zone," he said. At this point, it felt as if the entire universe was conspiring against me, and I was only seconds away from full-blown histeria.
"Momma, who's dat?" Woodstock piped up from the back seat. The deputy said, "you have beautiful kids. I nodded, "Fortunately the newborn is still alive, I said, this is just the frosting on a really crummy day. I fell down the stairs with her this morning."
He asked if we were okay. I assured him we were - mostly. He said, "I'm sorry I had to do this."
"It's not your fault," I said, wishing he'd just give me the ticket so I could break down in hysterics before I got to work.
What felt like hours later, he came back with what I was certain was my citation. He poked his head in my window to avoid the snow. "You know," he said, "I'm just giving you a warning. You know what did it? I'm human, we all have bad days, but you took responsibility for what you did. I think that's penance enough."
I was glad I didn't have to say anything more than "thank you," because I couldn't. I was so relieved.
Later, my mom called with more good news - she'd tracked down a giraffe costume for Woodstock (who has told everyone she's going to be a giraffe, when in fact she was going to be a lion). I dropped the phone, couldn't reach it.
I was 45 minutes late to work - and I realized I had forgotten my lunch. And now it's really snowing.
But if bad things come in threes, I'm covered. The rest of today should be splendid.
*For the record, I am hyper-vigilant about school zones. I do not speed in school zones. Ever. Well, except this morning. I felt horrible, which just increases my gratitude to the deputy.
I was too nervous to lie her down again, so I dozed and she slept on my chest until it was well past time to get up. That was the second problem.
The third problem came after I fed her and snuggled with her far too long (she's warm, the living room most definitely is not) - making me even later. That wasn't so much the problem as falling down the stairs with Pebbles in my arms was. Fortunately, it was only the last half of the stairs. Fortunately, my left hip and my right elbow took most of the fall (it's always my left hip!). Fortunately, I didn't drop Pebbles, just scared the living daylights out of her.
She cried. I sat there stunned, wind knocked out of me. Woodstock (whom Himself had just gotten up) cried because "Mamma's hurt. Fall down da stairs." (after she asked, "What's wrong honey?")
From that point on, it was pure chaos. The one day I forget to obsessively stalk the weather and it snows. Woodstock, already the world's pokiest eater, was even pokier than normal (of course, because I was late). It snowed harder.
I finally left the house, 20 minutes late. I took a different way to work than usual, avoiding the bench where the snow tends to be worse. It was snowing hard and I missed the flashing lights of a school zone. Unfortunately, the Sheriff's Deputy out this morning with his radar gun, did not.*
He poked his head in my window - "you were speeding in a school zone," he said. At this point, it felt as if the entire universe was conspiring against me, and I was only seconds away from full-blown histeria.
"Momma, who's dat?" Woodstock piped up from the back seat. The deputy said, "you have beautiful kids. I nodded, "Fortunately the newborn is still alive, I said, this is just the frosting on a really crummy day. I fell down the stairs with her this morning."
He asked if we were okay. I assured him we were - mostly. He said, "I'm sorry I had to do this."
"It's not your fault," I said, wishing he'd just give me the ticket so I could break down in hysterics before I got to work.
What felt like hours later, he came back with what I was certain was my citation. He poked his head in my window to avoid the snow. "You know," he said, "I'm just giving you a warning. You know what did it? I'm human, we all have bad days, but you took responsibility for what you did. I think that's penance enough."
I was glad I didn't have to say anything more than "thank you," because I couldn't. I was so relieved.
Later, my mom called with more good news - she'd tracked down a giraffe costume for Woodstock (who has told everyone she's going to be a giraffe, when in fact she was going to be a lion). I dropped the phone, couldn't reach it.
I was 45 minutes late to work - and I realized I had forgotten my lunch. And now it's really snowing.
But if bad things come in threes, I'm covered. The rest of today should be splendid.
*For the record, I am hyper-vigilant about school zones. I do not speed in school zones. Ever. Well, except this morning. I felt horrible, which just increases my gratitude to the deputy.
Saturday, January 24, 2009
Some Kind of Joke
Mother Nature hates me.
She tortures me with mounds of snow, then teases me with what looks like sunshine behind thick, leaded smog that suffocates one slowly and prevents anyone who wants to live longer than a week from venturing outside.
Then, on the night Himself is supposed to arrive home from a week-long business trip, Mother Nature goes and forgets that The Frontier, no matter its winter weather, is a DESERT.
And deserts aren't supposed to get fog. Even deserts with big, polluted salty lakes to their west. Especially not fog so thick that one cannot see the major street mere yards from one's front door. Especially not fog that shuts down the airport - for hours.
The good news is, the air is not 5 times the government's definition of "lethal" today.
The bad news is, Himself is still indisposed on his business trip - having had to shell out money for another hotel room and more meals, and await the company's reimbursement [Side note: I bit my tongue and refrained from saying that renting a car and driving the 5 hours would be cheaper and faster than waiting - after all, Himself is likely glad for the delay - incapacitated wife, a dirty Woodstock (I can't bathe her without folding myself into a pretzel) and a house that looks, well, neglected at best].
Rumor has it he'll arrive sometime today, but the clouds overhead are thick and dark - a reminder that Mother Nature is in charge of this weather circus.
As one final blow to my psyche, the weather forecasters are predicting a snowstorm on Monday morning - just in time to make the morning commute miserable.
Forget about not hibernating, I'm changing my mind. Wake me up when it's sunny and dry and we let our lawns die on purpose because we live in a desert.
She tortures me with mounds of snow, then teases me with what looks like sunshine behind thick, leaded smog that suffocates one slowly and prevents anyone who wants to live longer than a week from venturing outside.
Then, on the night Himself is supposed to arrive home from a week-long business trip, Mother Nature goes and forgets that The Frontier, no matter its winter weather, is a DESERT.
And deserts aren't supposed to get fog. Even deserts with big, polluted salty lakes to their west. Especially not fog so thick that one cannot see the major street mere yards from one's front door. Especially not fog that shuts down the airport - for hours.
The good news is, the air is not 5 times the government's definition of "lethal" today.
The bad news is, Himself is still indisposed on his business trip - having had to shell out money for another hotel room and more meals, and await the company's reimbursement [Side note: I bit my tongue and refrained from saying that renting a car and driving the 5 hours would be cheaper and faster than waiting - after all, Himself is likely glad for the delay - incapacitated wife, a dirty Woodstock (I can't bathe her without folding myself into a pretzel) and a house that looks, well, neglected at best].
Rumor has it he'll arrive sometime today, but the clouds overhead are thick and dark - a reminder that Mother Nature is in charge of this weather circus.
As one final blow to my psyche, the weather forecasters are predicting a snowstorm on Monday morning - just in time to make the morning commute miserable.
Forget about not hibernating, I'm changing my mind. Wake me up when it's sunny and dry and we let our lawns die on purpose because we live in a desert.
Wednesday, January 14, 2009
Maybe I'm Not Going to Hibernate This Year ... Yet
Two years ago, the crisis of the moment was trying to figure out what to feed a family of six in our congregation that wouldn't kill them (or us). It was a small, ridiculous thing, but the whole month was one of turmoil and uncertainty that lead to a life-changing (good and bad) February.
One year ago, the crisis of the moment was very, very real. Himself was out of a job, I was neck-deep in a personal crisis and my worries the year before seemed rather elementary.
This January, the 10-day forecast on Monday showed 45-degree temperatures and sunshine EVERY SINGLE DAY. Sure we're having inversion and the air outside is bad enough to kill us - but it does nothing to diminish my desire to click my heels and sing each morning when I leave the house and discover SUNSHINE. We've not had three snow storms in a week all winter. The last storm melted off our driveway before we got around to shoveling it. My boss isn't insane. Himself likes his job. The future appears to be bright. Woodstock is as sweet-tempered as ever.
While I still hate winter and snow and being cold, for the first time in recent memory, I am tolerating January rather well. I'm also scared to admit this, because a) winter is far from over - Februrary is the snowiest month in The Frontier and b) I'm afraid that some big trial or challenge will be sent my way just to test my newly minted postive-January outlook.
If you excuse Himself's nearly 3-week mystery illness and my wicked insomnia and our combined total lack of appetite for anything respectable (food-wise), January is shaping up to be a fairly decent month.
Like I said, it's the little things that count mid-winter.
One year ago, the crisis of the moment was very, very real. Himself was out of a job, I was neck-deep in a personal crisis and my worries the year before seemed rather elementary.
This January, the 10-day forecast on Monday showed 45-degree temperatures and sunshine EVERY SINGLE DAY. Sure we're having inversion and the air outside is bad enough to kill us - but it does nothing to diminish my desire to click my heels and sing each morning when I leave the house and discover SUNSHINE. We've not had three snow storms in a week all winter. The last storm melted off our driveway before we got around to shoveling it. My boss isn't insane. Himself likes his job. The future appears to be bright. Woodstock is as sweet-tempered as ever.
While I still hate winter and snow and being cold, for the first time in recent memory, I am tolerating January rather well. I'm also scared to admit this, because a) winter is far from over - Februrary is the snowiest month in The Frontier and b) I'm afraid that some big trial or challenge will be sent my way just to test my newly minted postive-January outlook.
If you excuse Himself's nearly 3-week mystery illness and my wicked insomnia and our combined total lack of appetite for anything respectable (food-wise), January is shaping up to be a fairly decent month.
Like I said, it's the little things that count mid-winter.
Wednesday, December 24, 2008
'Twas Two Days Before Christmas ...
'Twas two days before Christmas and the valley was covered in a thin sheet of ice and snow. My morning commute, against traffic, and therefore in generally-as-yet-unplowed territory, was trecherous. I crept up the block, then slogged up the hill. The far lane - the one leading to the Interstate that would lead to work - wasn't cleared at all. On a normal basis, I loathe driving in the snow - the constant state of panic about what my car - and the hundreds of cars around me - are going to do at any given second.
I know the "rules" about driving in snow, but it doesn't make it any better. With Woodstock in the car, everything gets ratcheted up times ten.
Tuesday, with blowing snow and ice-coated streets, wasn't any different, unless possibly, given the uncleared lane, it was worse. I made the hard right onto the on-ramp, in low gear, going 10 mph. Just enough to make the turn. Immediately, before the car had time to recover from the turn or figure out what was going on, I hit a solid sheet of ice. I quickly assessed the situation and decided at all costs, that I had to keep the car from sliding into the guard rail and potentially into traffic. I steered into the skid, did what I could ... and slid, nearly head-on, into a wall - 270 degrees from the direction in which I had been facing when I began.
CRUNCH. The fleeting feeling of helplessness and tension filled my body as the wall approached. I tried to keep one eye on the wall and one on the cars behind me - would they hit the same patch of ice? The one that slid a little, would it hit me broadside, as I was now perpendicular across the on-ramp? I counted my breaths to keep the rising agony at bay. Woodstock was on the side of the car that would be hit by any oncoming traffic, should they not be able to navigate their way around me.
I've never been in an accident while driving before, and I was in no mood to figure out what to do about it now. The first thing I had to do, damage to my front end be damned, was to get Woodstock out of harm's way. Except, that meant backing up, toward the downward slope and traffic and the guardrail, over the same sheet of ice that had put me in this predicament to begin with. I wanted to close my eyes as I put the car in reverse, but I figured that would only make matters worse. Truly making matters worse was the blind turn that cars entering the interstate had to make from the road to the on-ramp - and I was right in their path.
What felt like minutes, but was in fact only seconds, later, I was facing the right direction. I drove a little ways down the on-ramp until the shoulder widened to where I felt minimally safer pulling over and letting my breath out. At least Woodstock was out of the direct-impact zone. I dialed Himself.
Of course, he was concerned about our safety, but the next sentence was, "which car did you take?" I replied, "the Acura, of course." Of course, because I've only ever managed to damage the nicer of whatever two cars we've owned.
Still afraid to risk life, limb and tailbone (the shoulder was ice, however), to see the damage, I continued on my way, dropping Woodstock off, then making it (half-an-hour late) to the office. When I finally stepped out to examine the damage, I was perplexed.
While I was only going 10 mph when I went into the skid, I was a moving object that came to rest upon impact with a standing object, which would necessarily require that the object with the lesser mass (the car) would suffer impact damage. (I did learn something in physics, which I figured was pretty much impossible).
What I saw however, could not be. The license plate was crumpled almost beyond recognition. The license plate holder looked rather forlorn. The bumper had popped a couple of pins, and ... nothing else. To be certain, the front end was covered in snow, but even when I half-heartedly (not really wanting to see any damage) brushed it away, I could find no other evidence of having hit a concrete wall at a 75-degree angle.
Later, I took the car into the mechanic to get a good once-over - completely certain that there had to be more damage - the radiator, the air conditioning unit - something in the front that must have certainly cracked or jarred loose on impact.
The service tech came to find me.
"So you really hit a wall, huh?"
"Yes."
He went on to explain that the license plate holder was damaged beyond repair - though they had hammered my license plate back into something resembling, well, a license plate rather than a crumpled ball of foil. There were some bumper pins that needed replacing and ... that was it. $40 of parts, they were waiving the labor (since I also needed an oil change, new windshield wipers and surprise! the tires that we hoped would be okay for another month were not, actually, okay).
I nearly hugged the tech. $40? I hit a wall and the worst outcome was a $40 debit from my checking account? (In reality, it was over $400 - tires, oil change and wipers were not, unfortunately free - but weren't on the "accident" tab).
I prayed on the way back to the office. I celebrated the miracle of life, of morning prayers uttered to "keep us safe and bless us as we drive," of the man upstairs who knew that just once, I needed something to go my way.
The car parked in my driveway now, waiting for our trek to the southern desert to visit family, is testament that miracles still happen.
Merry Christmas.
I know the "rules" about driving in snow, but it doesn't make it any better. With Woodstock in the car, everything gets ratcheted up times ten.
Tuesday, with blowing snow and ice-coated streets, wasn't any different, unless possibly, given the uncleared lane, it was worse. I made the hard right onto the on-ramp, in low gear, going 10 mph. Just enough to make the turn. Immediately, before the car had time to recover from the turn or figure out what was going on, I hit a solid sheet of ice. I quickly assessed the situation and decided at all costs, that I had to keep the car from sliding into the guard rail and potentially into traffic. I steered into the skid, did what I could ... and slid, nearly head-on, into a wall - 270 degrees from the direction in which I had been facing when I began.
CRUNCH. The fleeting feeling of helplessness and tension filled my body as the wall approached. I tried to keep one eye on the wall and one on the cars behind me - would they hit the same patch of ice? The one that slid a little, would it hit me broadside, as I was now perpendicular across the on-ramp? I counted my breaths to keep the rising agony at bay. Woodstock was on the side of the car that would be hit by any oncoming traffic, should they not be able to navigate their way around me.
I've never been in an accident while driving before, and I was in no mood to figure out what to do about it now. The first thing I had to do, damage to my front end be damned, was to get Woodstock out of harm's way. Except, that meant backing up, toward the downward slope and traffic and the guardrail, over the same sheet of ice that had put me in this predicament to begin with. I wanted to close my eyes as I put the car in reverse, but I figured that would only make matters worse. Truly making matters worse was the blind turn that cars entering the interstate had to make from the road to the on-ramp - and I was right in their path.
What felt like minutes, but was in fact only seconds, later, I was facing the right direction. I drove a little ways down the on-ramp until the shoulder widened to where I felt minimally safer pulling over and letting my breath out. At least Woodstock was out of the direct-impact zone. I dialed Himself.
Of course, he was concerned about our safety, but the next sentence was, "which car did you take?" I replied, "the Acura, of course." Of course, because I've only ever managed to damage the nicer of whatever two cars we've owned.
Still afraid to risk life, limb and tailbone (the shoulder was ice, however), to see the damage, I continued on my way, dropping Woodstock off, then making it (half-an-hour late) to the office. When I finally stepped out to examine the damage, I was perplexed.
While I was only going 10 mph when I went into the skid, I was a moving object that came to rest upon impact with a standing object, which would necessarily require that the object with the lesser mass (the car) would suffer impact damage. (I did learn something in physics, which I figured was pretty much impossible).
What I saw however, could not be. The license plate was crumpled almost beyond recognition. The license plate holder looked rather forlorn. The bumper had popped a couple of pins, and ... nothing else. To be certain, the front end was covered in snow, but even when I half-heartedly (not really wanting to see any damage) brushed it away, I could find no other evidence of having hit a concrete wall at a 75-degree angle.
Later, I took the car into the mechanic to get a good once-over - completely certain that there had to be more damage - the radiator, the air conditioning unit - something in the front that must have certainly cracked or jarred loose on impact.
The service tech came to find me.
"So you really hit a wall, huh?"
"Yes."
He went on to explain that the license plate holder was damaged beyond repair - though they had hammered my license plate back into something resembling, well, a license plate rather than a crumpled ball of foil. There were some bumper pins that needed replacing and ... that was it. $40 of parts, they were waiving the labor (since I also needed an oil change, new windshield wipers and surprise! the tires that we hoped would be okay for another month were not, actually, okay).
I nearly hugged the tech. $40? I hit a wall and the worst outcome was a $40 debit from my checking account? (In reality, it was over $400 - tires, oil change and wipers were not, unfortunately free - but weren't on the "accident" tab).
I prayed on the way back to the office. I celebrated the miracle of life, of morning prayers uttered to "keep us safe and bless us as we drive," of the man upstairs who knew that just once, I needed something to go my way.
The car parked in my driveway now, waiting for our trek to the southern desert to visit family, is testament that miracles still happen.
Merry Christmas.
Tuesday, December 16, 2008
It's Beginning to Look a Lot Like Winter
I had one of those decreasingly rare mornings this morning where I was wide awake at oh-dark-hundred, and opted to use it to be productive.
I scrubbed the guest bathroom, I picked up all of Woodstock's toys upstairs. I did the dishes. I scrubbed the kitchen. I started a pot of beans and peppers and onions, which tonight will become homemade refried beans. I took out the trash, then lugged both the trashcan and the recycling can to the curb for Tuesday pick up.
Then, I scraped the ice off my driveway. It snowed heavily on Saturday and half melted on Sunday, leaving sheets of ice on the driveway that, if not removed by a shovel and then treated with the (envronmentally and cement friendly) ice melt, would last until spring.
I cajoled Himself into doing it yesterday morning, but rather than using the shovel to scrape off the ice, he poured half a bucket of (EXPENSIVE) ice melt on the driveway. Since it didn't actually warm up enough to melt anything yesterday, the ice still lingered this morning.
So, dressed in my polar fleece pants, my long underwear, boots, gloves and waterproof coat, I went out to engage in the only form of physical exercise I'll probably see this month.
I scraped and shoveled and cleaned the entire driveway down. The wet, bare cement glimmered under the red and green motion-sensor lights the neighbor installed. I mentally congratulated myself for starting my week out so well.
And the snow began to fall.
I didn't worry, I had just watched the weather - they promised a mere 1" would graze the valley - just enough to make traffic a bit of a mess. Apparently, either the weatherman predicting the storm didn't actually look outside or it was a cruel trick, because an hour later, when I went to leave the house, the freshy cleaned (and free of ice!) driveway was covered in 4" of snow (which has now become more than 6"), with big, fluffy flakes continuing to fall.
Whether it was because the forecast was off by several inches or because the plow drivers overslept, not a single road during the first 8 miles of my morning commute was either plowed or treated. It might be understandable (although irritating) if I lived on a small street. I do not. I live on a decent-sized secondary street, full of traffic during normal commuting hours. The remaining unplowed streets to work included a 7-lane major east-west thoroghfare and an interstate. Not exactly "little" roads.
No fewer than FOUR snow plows passed me on my way up the long hill at the end of the street leading to the interstate - plows UP. No fewer than three cars spun out in the middle of the unplowed road, necessitating that the cars behind them had to meander into oncoming traffic to get around them. Even the typically ridiculously over-confident 4-wheel drive drivers were creeping along at 15 mph.
There were several near misses as I inched up the hill and along the bench. In the backseat, Woodstock wailed for her "wawy" (water). Failing to produce requested beverage, she began crying for milk. Failing that, she started to sob great hysterical sobs, pleading for her "binty" (binky). In my haste to depart the house, I had forgotten the requisite sippy cup of water which is a routine part of our morning commute together. Woodstock wasn't terribly forgiving. Consequently, I was having a hard time concentrating on driving.
As the snow continued to fall, the roads got worse and the traffic grew more conjested, I tried to drown out the sobbing child in the backseat, focusing instead on the cars in front of me and the road below my tires.
We made it, turning a 9-mile drive into more than an hour's extravaganza of frayed nerves, wailing, slick spots, black ice, and slush up to the undercarriage.
I won't hate you if you pray for snow, but I can assure you, I won't be joining in. In fact, I will be pleading with the powers-that-be for a light winter that only happens on the weekends. Snow is fine if it doesn't require me leaving the house and driving in it - especially DURING the snowfall and especially during either end of my commute. Especially with Woodstock. And especially after I'd spent an hour clearing the driveway BEFORE the snow fell.
I'm just saying ... if you pray for snow, please don't share it.
I scrubbed the guest bathroom, I picked up all of Woodstock's toys upstairs. I did the dishes. I scrubbed the kitchen. I started a pot of beans and peppers and onions, which tonight will become homemade refried beans. I took out the trash, then lugged both the trashcan and the recycling can to the curb for Tuesday pick up.
Then, I scraped the ice off my driveway. It snowed heavily on Saturday and half melted on Sunday, leaving sheets of ice on the driveway that, if not removed by a shovel and then treated with the (envronmentally and cement friendly) ice melt, would last until spring.
I cajoled Himself into doing it yesterday morning, but rather than using the shovel to scrape off the ice, he poured half a bucket of (EXPENSIVE) ice melt on the driveway. Since it didn't actually warm up enough to melt anything yesterday, the ice still lingered this morning.
So, dressed in my polar fleece pants, my long underwear, boots, gloves and waterproof coat, I went out to engage in the only form of physical exercise I'll probably see this month.
I scraped and shoveled and cleaned the entire driveway down. The wet, bare cement glimmered under the red and green motion-sensor lights the neighbor installed. I mentally congratulated myself for starting my week out so well.
And the snow began to fall.
I didn't worry, I had just watched the weather - they promised a mere 1" would graze the valley - just enough to make traffic a bit of a mess. Apparently, either the weatherman predicting the storm didn't actually look outside or it was a cruel trick, because an hour later, when I went to leave the house, the freshy cleaned (and free of ice!) driveway was covered in 4" of snow (which has now become more than 6"), with big, fluffy flakes continuing to fall.
Whether it was because the forecast was off by several inches or because the plow drivers overslept, not a single road during the first 8 miles of my morning commute was either plowed or treated. It might be understandable (although irritating) if I lived on a small street. I do not. I live on a decent-sized secondary street, full of traffic during normal commuting hours. The remaining unplowed streets to work included a 7-lane major east-west thoroghfare and an interstate. Not exactly "little" roads.
No fewer than FOUR snow plows passed me on my way up the long hill at the end of the street leading to the interstate - plows UP. No fewer than three cars spun out in the middle of the unplowed road, necessitating that the cars behind them had to meander into oncoming traffic to get around them. Even the typically ridiculously over-confident 4-wheel drive drivers were creeping along at 15 mph.
There were several near misses as I inched up the hill and along the bench. In the backseat, Woodstock wailed for her "wawy" (water). Failing to produce requested beverage, she began crying for milk. Failing that, she started to sob great hysterical sobs, pleading for her "binty" (binky). In my haste to depart the house, I had forgotten the requisite sippy cup of water which is a routine part of our morning commute together. Woodstock wasn't terribly forgiving. Consequently, I was having a hard time concentrating on driving.
As the snow continued to fall, the roads got worse and the traffic grew more conjested, I tried to drown out the sobbing child in the backseat, focusing instead on the cars in front of me and the road below my tires.
We made it, turning a 9-mile drive into more than an hour's extravaganza of frayed nerves, wailing, slick spots, black ice, and slush up to the undercarriage.
I won't hate you if you pray for snow, but I can assure you, I won't be joining in. In fact, I will be pleading with the powers-that-be for a light winter that only happens on the weekends. Snow is fine if it doesn't require me leaving the house and driving in it - especially DURING the snowfall and especially during either end of my commute. Especially with Woodstock. And especially after I'd spent an hour clearing the driveway BEFORE the snow fell.
I'm just saying ... if you pray for snow, please don't share it.
Saturday, December 13, 2008
Forecast: Winter
One ergonomically correct snow shovel: $19.99
One extra-large container chemical-free, safe-for-pets-irrigation-ditches-and-small-children ice melter: $12.99
Two large containers of windshield wiper fluid - one for each car - to clean off all the sludge left over from the winter snow storms: $5.98
Realizing winter is here to stay: PAINFUL.
One extra-large container chemical-free, safe-for-pets-irrigation-ditches-and-small-children ice melter: $12.99
Two large containers of windshield wiper fluid - one for each car - to clean off all the sludge left over from the winter snow storms: $5.98
Realizing winter is here to stay: PAINFUL.
Tuesday, October 28, 2008
Wandering In the Dark
In high school, when I briefly flirted with the idea of attending a small liberal arts school in Wisconsin, my father practically begged me to reconsider. Not because it was a known party school, not because the tuition was enough to feed a small third-world country for a day, not because the words "small and liberal arts" were used in the same sentence, not because I would be moving thousands of miles away to a land inhabited by roughly as many cows and bars as people. No, all of those would have been a sure fire way to get me to flee gaily to the cheesehead capitol and stay there whether I liked it or not, just to prove a point. Rather, he practically begged me to reconsider my musings because it SNOWED there. (To be fair, I'm sure the other reasons crossed his mind several dozen times, but he knew me well enough to deter me with my weakness rather than with his worst nightmares come true).
It's a well known fact that I hate winter. Unfortunately, Himself hates to be hot, so we're trapped in the middle horizontal third of the country where the summers are hot (hoorah) and the winters are frigid (you can see Himself hoisting his skis and singing praises at each new patch of snow that shows up on the mountains).
However, it isn't the snow or the cold or the scraping of one's windows that I hate as much as the lack of light. It is nearly physically impossible for me to function without daylight. Artificial light doesn't cut it. I crave real, honest-to-goodness sunshine.
For this reason, I loathe the week before Daylight Savings ends and winter officially begins (regardless of what nature says, winter begins when it is dark when you get up and dark when you get home). I left my house this morning at 6:34 a.m. to wander around in the pitch blackness that only winter can bring as Day 2 of Operation Fitness commenced. Unlike Virginia, where everyone is halfway into their 2-hour commute at 6:30 a.m., no one is actually up and out at that hour in The Frontier, this close to the city.
I wandered around in the dark for 45 minutes. I passed three people and maybe four times that many cars. It felt as if I was exercising at 3 a.m. rather than the more-than-sensible 6:30 a.m.
The entire time (while praying I wasn't going to be hit by a car or incapacitated by the uneven terrain caused by sidewalks that appear and disappear at random in my enighborhood) I contemplated how I could hibernate through winter or move to the southern hemisphere where it is now spring. No longer is my dream of being a snowbird and owning two houses good enough - now I want those houses to be in two different hemispheres so I don't have to deal with dark mornings and cold days any more.
Seriously, in the days of telecommuting, wireless Internet and automatic deposit, would it be so wrong for me to consider apartment hunting in, say, a small beachside town in South America?
It's a well known fact that I hate winter. Unfortunately, Himself hates to be hot, so we're trapped in the middle horizontal third of the country where the summers are hot (hoorah) and the winters are frigid (you can see Himself hoisting his skis and singing praises at each new patch of snow that shows up on the mountains).
However, it isn't the snow or the cold or the scraping of one's windows that I hate as much as the lack of light. It is nearly physically impossible for me to function without daylight. Artificial light doesn't cut it. I crave real, honest-to-goodness sunshine.
For this reason, I loathe the week before Daylight Savings ends and winter officially begins (regardless of what nature says, winter begins when it is dark when you get up and dark when you get home). I left my house this morning at 6:34 a.m. to wander around in the pitch blackness that only winter can bring as Day 2 of Operation Fitness commenced. Unlike Virginia, where everyone is halfway into their 2-hour commute at 6:30 a.m., no one is actually up and out at that hour in The Frontier, this close to the city.
I wandered around in the dark for 45 minutes. I passed three people and maybe four times that many cars. It felt as if I was exercising at 3 a.m. rather than the more-than-sensible 6:30 a.m.
The entire time (while praying I wasn't going to be hit by a car or incapacitated by the uneven terrain caused by sidewalks that appear and disappear at random in my enighborhood) I contemplated how I could hibernate through winter or move to the southern hemisphere where it is now spring. No longer is my dream of being a snowbird and owning two houses good enough - now I want those houses to be in two different hemispheres so I don't have to deal with dark mornings and cold days any more.
Seriously, in the days of telecommuting, wireless Internet and automatic deposit, would it be so wrong for me to consider apartment hunting in, say, a small beachside town in South America?
Wednesday, October 22, 2008
Thinking Out Loud, Part III
A Continuation of This
It snowed and snowed and snowed. The valley became thick with fog, heavy clouds, inversion and perma-snow. We went nearly three months before we saw our lawn - only to have the snow return. People said it was the worst winter in years - in nearly a decade. Funny thing, all of my winters in The Frontier (all 4 of them) have been "record-setting" winters in the snow/cold temps/storms categories. I must have some sort of mighty influence on Mother Nature. If so, I'm calling in a favor this year. I'll conserve water, let my lawn die, whatever if only we can have a mild winter.
I felt like a heathen praying desperately for sunshine and clean air last year when the rest of The Frontier, trained from childhood to pray for moisture in this high-altitude desert wilderness, prayed for snow. But pray I did. For sunshine and sanity, mostly.
The darkest day came in mid-January. The details are seared into my memory forever. Himself had just lost his job. Woodstock was sick with a bad winter cold. I felt as if I was weighted down by concrete. My boss at The Factory had a tyrranical fit over some perceived slight that would not have even been an issue had she not spent the entire prior week galavanting with stars and power brokers in the ridiculously over-the-top film festival up the canyon. I was driving in a blizzard to pick up Woodstock. I had nearly slid off the road trying to drive a stick-shift up a long, steep hill in stop-and-go traffic. My nerves were frayed, my hope was shattered, my soul was drowning.
I did something I have never done before, or since: I pulled over and called my mom. I started to cry when she answered the phone. I cried for nearly a full 5 minutes before I could compose myself enough to plead,
She and my sister came. Bless their bosses who didn't question when they called in over the weekend to say the storm (forecast well in advance) prevented their return for a couple of days. Bless them - who spent the weekend cleaning, organizing and working to make The Hobbit Hole a refuge instead of an anxiety-ridden lair.
I sobbed the day they left. I wanted to fling myself at the end of the snowy driveway and beg for them to take Woodstock and I to the sunny respite of their homes in the south. Every ounce of adult sensibility was called into play to keep me from getting into my own car and following them home.
The mailman came daily, but not a single piece of mail was opened in our home for three months. NOT ONE. I took it, in its piles and let it build up. I couldn't bear what its contents might hold. I couldn't even bear to get up in the mornings. The Frontier felt like the Arctic Wilderness - barren, unforgiving and isolated.
Work got worse. The Factory was a web of lies and deceit and broken promises. Any chance I had at getting anywhere was eliminated when I refused to call my contacts in an attempt to make them potential clients. There was no way I was going to put my reputation on the line for things I could not control. And still the answer was, "Not yet. Be patient. It's not time to leave."
Eventually, I started head-shrinking. Talking it out helped. Realizing that I was sick helped, but it wasn't something I could admit out loud. It would have been easier to declare I had cancer than to say my diagnosis out loud: Post-partum depression and severe anxiety disorder, on top of my typical seasonal affective disorder. My entire adult life had been dedicated to cultivating the impression of a put-together, strong, independent woman. Even under the weight of wanting to just disappear, I couldn't admit I needed help - from anyone. In my world, asking for help meant needing to reciprocate. I couldn't ask, because I couldn't repay. I couldn't ask, because I couldn't be weak. I had to keep it together - to earn a living for my family, to take care of my baby, to survive. Admitting I needed help went contrary to everything inside of me - wise or not.
I scratched out each day, waiting in an eternal state of suspension for spring - for the tulips, the daffodils, any sign that my winter prison would thaw and leave me better able to heal.
To be continued ...
It snowed and snowed and snowed. The valley became thick with fog, heavy clouds, inversion and perma-snow. We went nearly three months before we saw our lawn - only to have the snow return. People said it was the worst winter in years - in nearly a decade. Funny thing, all of my winters in The Frontier (all 4 of them) have been "record-setting" winters in the snow/cold temps/storms categories. I must have some sort of mighty influence on Mother Nature. If so, I'm calling in a favor this year. I'll conserve water, let my lawn die, whatever if only we can have a mild winter.
I felt like a heathen praying desperately for sunshine and clean air last year when the rest of The Frontier, trained from childhood to pray for moisture in this high-altitude desert wilderness, prayed for snow. But pray I did. For sunshine and sanity, mostly.
The darkest day came in mid-January. The details are seared into my memory forever. Himself had just lost his job. Woodstock was sick with a bad winter cold. I felt as if I was weighted down by concrete. My boss at The Factory had a tyrranical fit over some perceived slight that would not have even been an issue had she not spent the entire prior week galavanting with stars and power brokers in the ridiculously over-the-top film festival up the canyon. I was driving in a blizzard to pick up Woodstock. I had nearly slid off the road trying to drive a stick-shift up a long, steep hill in stop-and-go traffic. My nerves were frayed, my hope was shattered, my soul was drowning.
I did something I have never done before, or since: I pulled over and called my mom. I started to cry when she answered the phone. I cried for nearly a full 5 minutes before I could compose myself enough to plead,
"Please come."The Parents live 300 miles away - through three major mountain passes and some of the highest (ie snowiest) terrain in the state. My mom works full-time. The weekend forecast was for more storms.
She and my sister came. Bless their bosses who didn't question when they called in over the weekend to say the storm (forecast well in advance) prevented their return for a couple of days. Bless them - who spent the weekend cleaning, organizing and working to make The Hobbit Hole a refuge instead of an anxiety-ridden lair.
I sobbed the day they left. I wanted to fling myself at the end of the snowy driveway and beg for them to take Woodstock and I to the sunny respite of their homes in the south. Every ounce of adult sensibility was called into play to keep me from getting into my own car and following them home.
The mailman came daily, but not a single piece of mail was opened in our home for three months. NOT ONE. I took it, in its piles and let it build up. I couldn't bear what its contents might hold. I couldn't even bear to get up in the mornings. The Frontier felt like the Arctic Wilderness - barren, unforgiving and isolated.
Work got worse. The Factory was a web of lies and deceit and broken promises. Any chance I had at getting anywhere was eliminated when I refused to call my contacts in an attempt to make them potential clients. There was no way I was going to put my reputation on the line for things I could not control. And still the answer was, "Not yet. Be patient. It's not time to leave."
Eventually, I started head-shrinking. Talking it out helped. Realizing that I was sick helped, but it wasn't something I could admit out loud. It would have been easier to declare I had cancer than to say my diagnosis out loud: Post-partum depression and severe anxiety disorder, on top of my typical seasonal affective disorder. My entire adult life had been dedicated to cultivating the impression of a put-together, strong, independent woman. Even under the weight of wanting to just disappear, I couldn't admit I needed help - from anyone. In my world, asking for help meant needing to reciprocate. I couldn't ask, because I couldn't repay. I couldn't ask, because I couldn't be weak. I had to keep it together - to earn a living for my family, to take care of my baby, to survive. Admitting I needed help went contrary to everything inside of me - wise or not.
I scratched out each day, waiting in an eternal state of suspension for spring - for the tulips, the daffodils, any sign that my winter prison would thaw and leave me better able to heal.
To be continued ...
Thursday, October 16, 2008
On The Recent Snowstorm
It snowed this weekend. SNOWED! As in 3" of the white stuff all over the yard on Sunday morning. As in we had to turn on the heat because our house is leaky and poorly insulated. As in we had to dig out not just jackets but actual COATS.
As in ... winter is almost here.
*sigh*
I was complaining about the early arrival of Old Man Winter, until I realized that this is NORMAL - realizing that last year I was pretty much in the same state of mourning, as evidenced by this post, which still rings very, very true.
It's going to be a long time until spring comes again.
As in ... winter is almost here.
*sigh*
I was complaining about the early arrival of Old Man Winter, until I realized that this is NORMAL - realizing that last year I was pretty much in the same state of mourning, as evidenced by this post, which still rings very, very true.
It's going to be a long time until spring comes again.
Saturday, February 23, 2008
In Suspense
I have a "To Do" list that is long enough to keep me busy long past hibernation season is over, but all I want to do today is hibernate.
Well, not entirely true. I'd like to go exploring, but there are at least six batches of laundry, both the kitchen and bathroom need to be scrubbed, last week's clean laundry is all in the nursery, begging to be folded, the floors need attention, I need to make a small grocery list and ... we won't even discuss the state of my bedroom.
Besides, it's raining. And cold. And Himself and friend went off skiing today, leaving me with the Hoopty, which isn't good on wet streets. And I have no idea where I'd actually go exploring, given that I can't seem to find anything going on and it's cold and rainy outside.
So, I've sat here for the 40 minutes that Baby Girl has been asleep, thinking I really should DO something while she's asleep, as it's much easier to clean when she's sleeping. Nothing happens.
I sit here in my Christmas pj bottoms and an enormous Snoopy sweater and wonder how on earth I could possibly be wasting my one real weekend day just sitting here.
Well, not entirely true. I'd like to go exploring, but there are at least six batches of laundry, both the kitchen and bathroom need to be scrubbed, last week's clean laundry is all in the nursery, begging to be folded, the floors need attention, I need to make a small grocery list and ... we won't even discuss the state of my bedroom.
Besides, it's raining. And cold. And Himself and friend went off skiing today, leaving me with the Hoopty, which isn't good on wet streets. And I have no idea where I'd actually go exploring, given that I can't seem to find anything going on and it's cold and rainy outside.
So, I've sat here for the 40 minutes that Baby Girl has been asleep, thinking I really should DO something while she's asleep, as it's much easier to clean when she's sleeping. Nothing happens.
I sit here in my Christmas pj bottoms and an enormous Snoopy sweater and wonder how on earth I could possibly be wasting my one real weekend day just sitting here.
Thursday, February 14, 2008
Fire & Ice (or Snow, rather)
It snowed yesterday.
I realize that it snows frequently in The Frontier, even more so than usual this year (Global Warming, what?!), but yesterday's snowstorm was significant because we had been without snow for a whole week.
Not only had we been without snow, but it had been in the 50s (of course I was in DC for most of it) for several days, meaning that the snow on our driveway had completely melted for the first time in two months. (There was still a good 4" on the front lawn). No longer. There is now a good 8-10" on our front lawn, and the driveway has two deep tire tracks, as no one got up early enough this morning to actually shovel anything.
Making matters more interesting, the snowstorm hit its hardest during rush hour, always a great way to spend the entirety of one's evening - watching the snow from inside one's toasty warm car, cross-eyed from focusing so intently on the rear lights of the car in front of you, creeping along the bench at -5 mph.
The only relief is that it isn't supposed to snow again (according to the only-sometimes-correct weatherman) for another week. Maybe. Toes and fingers crossed.
So yesterday ended bad; today started out bad. Car was buried. Driveway was buried. Driveway into the sitter's complex nearly bested my poor, non-snow worthy car.
It continued along that course.
Our building caught on fire. One of the suites in The Factory's building had some sort of fire (albeit small) that disrupted the entire building's productivity for 30 minutes while the fireman fixed the fire and another 30 minutes while they scurried around trying to figure out why the alarm was still going off.
An hour later, everyone settled into their comfortable (and only semi-productive at this point) routines, the power went off - on the entire block.
We work on laptops - battery power lasts for several hours - unfortunately, the server which we connect to (owned and operated by the company with whom we office share) does not. I, having possession of the evil Blackberry, was the only one with internet/e-mail access.
It was off for an hour.
Seriously. I haven't even waded through the 100 e-mails I received overnight. Am I going to accomplish anything?
I realize that it snows frequently in The Frontier, even more so than usual this year (Global Warming, what?!), but yesterday's snowstorm was significant because we had been without snow for a whole week.
Not only had we been without snow, but it had been in the 50s (of course I was in DC for most of it) for several days, meaning that the snow on our driveway had completely melted for the first time in two months. (There was still a good 4" on the front lawn). No longer. There is now a good 8-10" on our front lawn, and the driveway has two deep tire tracks, as no one got up early enough this morning to actually shovel anything.
Making matters more interesting, the snowstorm hit its hardest during rush hour, always a great way to spend the entirety of one's evening - watching the snow from inside one's toasty warm car, cross-eyed from focusing so intently on the rear lights of the car in front of you, creeping along the bench at -5 mph.
The only relief is that it isn't supposed to snow again (according to the only-sometimes-correct weatherman) for another week. Maybe. Toes and fingers crossed.
So yesterday ended bad; today started out bad. Car was buried. Driveway was buried. Driveway into the sitter's complex nearly bested my poor, non-snow worthy car.
It continued along that course.
Our building caught on fire. One of the suites in The Factory's building had some sort of fire (albeit small) that disrupted the entire building's productivity for 30 minutes while the fireman fixed the fire and another 30 minutes while they scurried around trying to figure out why the alarm was still going off.
An hour later, everyone settled into their comfortable (and only semi-productive at this point) routines, the power went off - on the entire block.
We work on laptops - battery power lasts for several hours - unfortunately, the server which we connect to (owned and operated by the company with whom we office share) does not. I, having possession of the evil Blackberry, was the only one with internet/e-mail access.
It was off for an hour.
Seriously. I haven't even waded through the 100 e-mails I received overnight. Am I going to accomplish anything?
Friday, December 07, 2007
Just Another Day in Paradise
I have had a bad month. A bad several weeks, actually, since the month is only seven days old at this point. Himself and I have traded off between feeling like we've been smooshed by a gigantic steamroller and feeling like we can trudge through another day with only minor reminders that we aren't well.
We finally discovered the culprit. The doctor took one look at Himself's tonsils, and after running a rapid strep test, declared thatHimself had the worst case of strep he had ever seen. Our roller coaster rides through illness have been on alternating weeks (thank goodness for that, I suppose), and he is one week ahead of me, so his is worse, but I also have it. Of course, we spent a highly useful period of time last night discussing who felt what and who had had a higher temperature, etc.
The house looks like a bachelor pad - you know, the kind that they'd showcase in a movie like Animal House. We have ordered takeout Chinese twice in 10 days from the restaurant a few streets over who actually has a website where you can order your takeout online (and it is almost as good as Taste of Asia in Maryland). We've never ordered takeout Chinese before. Neither of us are hungry, but one of us is feeding two people with one person's daily caloric intake, so food is sort of a necessity.
The laundry has been done - between being sick and spreading germs all over and Baby Girl, the washer hasn't sat idle more than 24 hours in the last few weeks. What has resulted is lovely, artistically deposited piles of textiles all over my living room, the nursery, our bedroom ... wherever they got shoved if someone was rumored to drop by.
The Christmas tree is up because I felt I owed it to Baby Girl. We're missing one box of ornaments and our tree looks like something even Charlie Brown would have a hard time loving, so it's really more of a garish misappropriation of artificial holiday cheer than a decoration, but Baby Girl loves the thing anyway.
The coffee table is covered in saline drops for babies and adults, a snot sucker, a box of tissues, a digital thermometer, a bottle of Tylenol (formerly occupied by a bottle of Advil, when it was my turn to take up residence on the couch, er, sick bed), a couple of empty water glasses - one which held juice, one which held water, two prescription bottles, a packet of throat lozenges, a bag of throat lozenges (Himself and I have different preferences for those, in addition to our painkiller differences) and a host of other things we've been too lazy to displace.
Our nightstands look equally the same. The couch pillows are on the love seat and the couch is covered in blankets, as one or the other of us has been sleeping on the couch for the last 3 1/2 weeks. All of Baby Girl's entertainment options are stationed within arm's reach of the couch - her bouncy seat, play mat, blanket, etc. The tub of wrapping paper and bows and other assorted useless (we have no gifts purchased yet) holiday cheer sits behind the ottoman, as neither of us have had the energy or foresight to move it.
And we won't even mention the dust and grime that is covering every other surface. Or the fact that the refrigerator is full of ingredients none of us have had the energy to do anything with. Or the fact that somehow we neglected to unpack the winter clothes when we moved in, so there are two boxes in two different rooms with their contents strewn over every available surface. Every morning we go to our appropriate box, shove our hand in and pull out a new surprise - spending the rest of the morning trying to find something to wear with it.
And this morning I realized we leave in two weeks for the great state of Washington. We have no presents purchased. We haven't even discussed what we're giving. We haven't talked about travel logistics - exactly when we're leaving, where we're staying or when we're coming home, nor have we talked about anything else holiday-related.
Oh yeah, and the weatherman is calling for a big storm where snow will fall "in feet, not inches." Hopefully this one isn't as badly forecasted as the one last week where we got 8-10" out of a storm that was supposed to just drop a "dusting."
It's another day in paradise, er, The Hobbit Infirmary.
We finally discovered the culprit. The doctor took one look at Himself's tonsils, and after running a rapid strep test, declared thatHimself had the worst case of strep he had ever seen. Our roller coaster rides through illness have been on alternating weeks (thank goodness for that, I suppose), and he is one week ahead of me, so his is worse, but I also have it. Of course, we spent a highly useful period of time last night discussing who felt what and who had had a higher temperature, etc.
The house looks like a bachelor pad - you know, the kind that they'd showcase in a movie like Animal House. We have ordered takeout Chinese twice in 10 days from the restaurant a few streets over who actually has a website where you can order your takeout online (and it is almost as good as Taste of Asia in Maryland). We've never ordered takeout Chinese before. Neither of us are hungry, but one of us is feeding two people with one person's daily caloric intake, so food is sort of a necessity.
The laundry has been done - between being sick and spreading germs all over and Baby Girl, the washer hasn't sat idle more than 24 hours in the last few weeks. What has resulted is lovely, artistically deposited piles of textiles all over my living room, the nursery, our bedroom ... wherever they got shoved if someone was rumored to drop by.
The Christmas tree is up because I felt I owed it to Baby Girl. We're missing one box of ornaments and our tree looks like something even Charlie Brown would have a hard time loving, so it's really more of a garish misappropriation of artificial holiday cheer than a decoration, but Baby Girl loves the thing anyway.
The coffee table is covered in saline drops for babies and adults, a snot sucker, a box of tissues, a digital thermometer, a bottle of Tylenol (formerly occupied by a bottle of Advil, when it was my turn to take up residence on the couch, er, sick bed), a couple of empty water glasses - one which held juice, one which held water, two prescription bottles, a packet of throat lozenges, a bag of throat lozenges (Himself and I have different preferences for those, in addition to our painkiller differences) and a host of other things we've been too lazy to displace.
Our nightstands look equally the same. The couch pillows are on the love seat and the couch is covered in blankets, as one or the other of us has been sleeping on the couch for the last 3 1/2 weeks. All of Baby Girl's entertainment options are stationed within arm's reach of the couch - her bouncy seat, play mat, blanket, etc. The tub of wrapping paper and bows and other assorted useless (we have no gifts purchased yet) holiday cheer sits behind the ottoman, as neither of us have had the energy or foresight to move it.
And we won't even mention the dust and grime that is covering every other surface. Or the fact that the refrigerator is full of ingredients none of us have had the energy to do anything with. Or the fact that somehow we neglected to unpack the winter clothes when we moved in, so there are two boxes in two different rooms with their contents strewn over every available surface. Every morning we go to our appropriate box, shove our hand in and pull out a new surprise - spending the rest of the morning trying to find something to wear with it.
And this morning I realized we leave in two weeks for the great state of Washington. We have no presents purchased. We haven't even discussed what we're giving. We haven't talked about travel logistics - exactly when we're leaving, where we're staying or when we're coming home, nor have we talked about anything else holiday-related.
Oh yeah, and the weatherman is calling for a big storm where snow will fall "in feet, not inches." Hopefully this one isn't as badly forecasted as the one last week where we got 8-10" out of a storm that was supposed to just drop a "dusting."
It's another day in paradise, er, The Hobbit Infirmary.
Sunday, December 02, 2007
How Do I Hate Thee...
Winter, how do I hate thee? Let me count the ways (in no particular order);
1. Snow. Pretty snow when it requires no driving (as it was on Saturday) is fine. But it must be gone from all streets, parking lots, sidewalks or any other hazardous place by Monday morning.
2. Melting & Re-freezing - see above (especially when one has to lug Baby Girl, a laptop bag, a lunch bag, a pumping bag - and this morning, a diaper bag - across said frozen water).
3. Inversion. A special winter evil in The Frontier.
4. Smog (worsened by inversion).
5. Hills - making 1 and 2 particularly nasty.
6. Dark mornings, dark commutes home.
7. Gray. When the valley fills with clouds, fog and even the mountains disappear - it's hard not to feel gray inside too.
8. Below freezing temperatures. I finally bought a good winter coat - just in time for my old coat from college to be located. Doesn't mean I like wearing either one of them.
9. Tourists. I liked tourists in DC (as long as they stayed off public transit and downtown streets during rush hour), but tourists in The Frontier are (generalizing, stereotyping - forgive me) generally hot shots who think they're coming to the world's most backward state to have a little fun, complain about the locals and then jet back to their fabulous McMansion.
10. Lake effect. Warm water + arctic air = LOTS of white stuff.
11. Bad weather forecasts. A chance of a "slight dusting" on Saturday morning turned into 10" along the east bench.
12. No snow days. At least before I could hope for a storm bad enough to close work. No more.
13. Dress shoes. I'm wearing my ugly (but oh-so-comfy) Aerosole loafers with the tassles and my clunky oxfords every day. They have rubber soles, slightly minimizing the fall factor. My cute shoes worked in VA because my car was garaged and snow was scarce.
14. Salt. Icky, saltiness covering everything.
15. Mountain passes. Bad storms render one virtually stuck in one place.
1. Snow. Pretty snow when it requires no driving (as it was on Saturday) is fine. But it must be gone from all streets, parking lots, sidewalks or any other hazardous place by Monday morning.
2. Melting & Re-freezing - see above (especially when one has to lug Baby Girl, a laptop bag, a lunch bag, a pumping bag - and this morning, a diaper bag - across said frozen water).
3. Inversion. A special winter evil in The Frontier.
4. Smog (worsened by inversion).
5. Hills - making 1 and 2 particularly nasty.
6. Dark mornings, dark commutes home.
7. Gray. When the valley fills with clouds, fog and even the mountains disappear - it's hard not to feel gray inside too.
8. Below freezing temperatures. I finally bought a good winter coat - just in time for my old coat from college to be located. Doesn't mean I like wearing either one of them.
9. Tourists. I liked tourists in DC (as long as they stayed off public transit and downtown streets during rush hour), but tourists in The Frontier are (generalizing, stereotyping - forgive me) generally hot shots who think they're coming to the world's most backward state to have a little fun, complain about the locals and then jet back to their fabulous McMansion.
10. Lake effect. Warm water + arctic air = LOTS of white stuff.
11. Bad weather forecasts. A chance of a "slight dusting" on Saturday morning turned into 10" along the east bench.
12. No snow days. At least before I could hope for a storm bad enough to close work. No more.
13. Dress shoes. I'm wearing my ugly (but oh-so-comfy) Aerosole loafers with the tassles and my clunky oxfords every day. They have rubber soles, slightly minimizing the fall factor. My cute shoes worked in VA because my car was garaged and snow was scarce.
14. Salt. Icky, saltiness covering everything.
15. Mountain passes. Bad storms render one virtually stuck in one place.
Wednesday, November 28, 2007
A Tale of Two Snowstorms
The last time I had to deal with measurable snowfall was on Valentine's Day. At the time, I was a world away from where I am now - figuratively and geographically. Our parents had just received the card in the mail, informing them of their new grandchild-to-be. I hadn't yet been laid off. There was nothing to suspect the status quo would change.
I walked out to my car to discover the two feet of snow pushed up against it by the apartment complex's snow plow, valiantly spend the next hour trying to make a path out of the mound so I could go to work. I was freezing. I didn't have a shovel. I wasn't in the mood to deal with snow in the wilds of DC. So I gave up, made hot cocoa and told work I was going to work from home.
Yesterday, as I was heading downtown for a meeting, it started snowing. Big, white, soggy, wet flakes. By the time I left, it had already made a noticeable impact on the landscape - creating slushy roads and cautious, slow-moving traffic. I caught myself thinking, "If I was still in Virginia, my office would be closed and I wouldn't have to work."
I went to bed last night, lulled into slumber by the voice of the weather man talking about lake effect snow and an increased prediction of how much would stick. I woke up to a silent, winter wonderland of white. I bundled Baby Girl into her newly acquired Santa outfit (because it's very, very warm and ridiculously cute), grabbed my laptop bag, my pumping bag, the mini cooler for her milk, Baby Girl in her carseat and my water bottle (I later remembered I had left my lunch sitting on the kitchen counter - heaven only knows how I managed to forget one more thing ...). I schlepped it all upstairs, opened the door, and realized that, since we no longer live in an apartment complex, there is no one to shovel the walks for us. No matter. I trudged through the snow, buckled Baby Girl in, started the car to keep her warm and surveyed the landscape.
Determining that there was not enough snow to actually warrant shoveling, and risking a very icy return after the stuff had melted and refrozen, I cleaned off the car windows and began my journey. As I drove, I again drew a parallel to my last snowstorm. While the majority of the snow on my route had fallen in the middle of the night, the roads were nothing more than wet. Clearly they had been treated and plowed. I thought, "If I was in Virginia, the roads would be awful, the office would be on a delay and half the people would call in because they couldn't actually drive in the stuff."
But I wasn't, and The Frontier is quite adept at dealing with the snow. The drivers, while probably not any less goofy about driving in it, at least have generally lived here long enough not to panic at the first sight of a snowflake. The schools stay open, the businesses stay open, the world keeps on moving. Whiteouts, power failure, blizzards - nothing stops this place from trudging on. I think it's all those pioneer stock, who feel the need to push on through anything.
No more will I sit, with childlike energy, willing the weatherman to predict a snowstorm - because no more will the mere mention of a snowstorm mean partial days, working from home or complete closures.
Instead, Himself and I will rummage through the shed to find the salt and the snow shovel. Winter has arrived.
I walked out to my car to discover the two feet of snow pushed up against it by the apartment complex's snow plow, valiantly spend the next hour trying to make a path out of the mound so I could go to work. I was freezing. I didn't have a shovel. I wasn't in the mood to deal with snow in the wilds of DC. So I gave up, made hot cocoa and told work I was going to work from home.
Yesterday, as I was heading downtown for a meeting, it started snowing. Big, white, soggy, wet flakes. By the time I left, it had already made a noticeable impact on the landscape - creating slushy roads and cautious, slow-moving traffic. I caught myself thinking, "If I was still in Virginia, my office would be closed and I wouldn't have to work."
I went to bed last night, lulled into slumber by the voice of the weather man talking about lake effect snow and an increased prediction of how much would stick. I woke up to a silent, winter wonderland of white. I bundled Baby Girl into her newly acquired Santa outfit (because it's very, very warm and ridiculously cute), grabbed my laptop bag, my pumping bag, the mini cooler for her milk, Baby Girl in her carseat and my water bottle (I later remembered I had left my lunch sitting on the kitchen counter - heaven only knows how I managed to forget one more thing ...). I schlepped it all upstairs, opened the door, and realized that, since we no longer live in an apartment complex, there is no one to shovel the walks for us. No matter. I trudged through the snow, buckled Baby Girl in, started the car to keep her warm and surveyed the landscape.
Determining that there was not enough snow to actually warrant shoveling, and risking a very icy return after the stuff had melted and refrozen, I cleaned off the car windows and began my journey. As I drove, I again drew a parallel to my last snowstorm. While the majority of the snow on my route had fallen in the middle of the night, the roads were nothing more than wet. Clearly they had been treated and plowed. I thought, "If I was in Virginia, the roads would be awful, the office would be on a delay and half the people would call in because they couldn't actually drive in the stuff."
But I wasn't, and The Frontier is quite adept at dealing with the snow. The drivers, while probably not any less goofy about driving in it, at least have generally lived here long enough not to panic at the first sight of a snowflake. The schools stay open, the businesses stay open, the world keeps on moving. Whiteouts, power failure, blizzards - nothing stops this place from trudging on. I think it's all those pioneer stock, who feel the need to push on through anything.
No more will I sit, with childlike energy, willing the weatherman to predict a snowstorm - because no more will the mere mention of a snowstorm mean partial days, working from home or complete closures.
Instead, Himself and I will rummage through the shed to find the salt and the snow shovel. Winter has arrived.
Tuesday, November 20, 2007
Neurotic Nonsense
My brain is all over today.
First, I have to brag on my father. He is the greatest father ever. I could write an entire book about it - and I would take on anyone who says that my claim to having the world's greatest father is biased. (And I'm tougher than I look).
Sometime during the decade since I lived in the Great Frozen North, all of my serious winter gear has dwindled into wimpy winter gear - an alarming number of fleeces, a wool dress coat (requisite for the East) and so forth. Being back in the Frontier, where it acually snows (and there are no such things as "snow days"), I realized I needed something more substantial to keep me warm (unless yesterday's 70-degree day has become the norm - very weird). Alas, I've only managed to pick up a good set of waterproof driving gloves.
Today my dad calls me at work - very unusual. He is, I realize, immensely excited over something. He asks if I've procured a winter coat yet. Nope. Then he tells me about a sale notice he got over e-mail today where there is a really great coat on sale for 50% off - no tax, no shipping if you order $X worth. He goes into the benefits of the coat and how much my sister paid for the same one last year (I'm sure my sister is thrilled to know she paid $40 more than I did). He reads me the item number, has me pull it up, recommends a size (yes, my blind father, recommending sizes - don't ask) and then he orders something to bump me into the free shipping zone (I don't tell him that paying for my shipping would have been cheaper than buying a new $50 camp pad).
Because of his eagerness, I was even able to snag a black coat in my size - on clearance (side note: who sells coats on clearance in November?!) - no neon green, slightly-the-wrong-size for me. My coat is on its way. I'm not going to freeze here. Thanks Dad!
--
In other news. One of my Google alerts for a client is "New Orleans" and "children" and "Katrina" - imagine the number of interesting news tidbits I get on that every day.
Today, however, I scored a good one - an interview with Jennifer Garner in Glamour, reprinted on MSNBC.com.
Most interviews with celebrities make me sick. They're either so ridiculously perfect with ridiculous, "I have no idea what the world is really like" opinions or they are ridiculously messed up. Usually I want to throw something at Jennifer Garner because she looks stunning - all the time - and lately I've taken to wearing my hair in a knot on my head - all the time - and smelling like eau de sour milk.
This time, however, I wanted to hug her. I will forever love her for this quote, in response to who she thinks is heroic:
Someone who realizes that loving, cooking, working, balancing, juggling, going slightly insane, volunteering - living life - counts. That waking up every day and working to make it a better day is something to be celebrated.
It didn't hurt that she confessed to feeling sheepish about hugging the Boston Red Sox's mascot - a giant red sock. "Why did I have to hug the sock? Just say hello like a normal person."
Sometimes I metaphorically hug a sock too - it's nice to know I'm not the only goofball.
First, I have to brag on my father. He is the greatest father ever. I could write an entire book about it - and I would take on anyone who says that my claim to having the world's greatest father is biased. (And I'm tougher than I look).
Sometime during the decade since I lived in the Great Frozen North, all of my serious winter gear has dwindled into wimpy winter gear - an alarming number of fleeces, a wool dress coat (requisite for the East) and so forth. Being back in the Frontier, where it acually snows (and there are no such things as "snow days"), I realized I needed something more substantial to keep me warm (unless yesterday's 70-degree day has become the norm - very weird). Alas, I've only managed to pick up a good set of waterproof driving gloves.
Today my dad calls me at work - very unusual. He is, I realize, immensely excited over something. He asks if I've procured a winter coat yet. Nope. Then he tells me about a sale notice he got over e-mail today where there is a really great coat on sale for 50% off - no tax, no shipping if you order $X worth. He goes into the benefits of the coat and how much my sister paid for the same one last year (I'm sure my sister is thrilled to know she paid $40 more than I did). He reads me the item number, has me pull it up, recommends a size (yes, my blind father, recommending sizes - don't ask) and then he orders something to bump me into the free shipping zone (I don't tell him that paying for my shipping would have been cheaper than buying a new $50 camp pad).
Because of his eagerness, I was even able to snag a black coat in my size - on clearance (side note: who sells coats on clearance in November?!) - no neon green, slightly-the-wrong-size for me. My coat is on its way. I'm not going to freeze here. Thanks Dad!
--
In other news. One of my Google alerts for a client is "New Orleans" and "children" and "Katrina" - imagine the number of interesting news tidbits I get on that every day.
Today, however, I scored a good one - an interview with Jennifer Garner in Glamour, reprinted on MSNBC.com.
Most interviews with celebrities make me sick. They're either so ridiculously perfect with ridiculous, "I have no idea what the world is really like" opinions or they are ridiculously messed up. Usually I want to throw something at Jennifer Garner because she looks stunning - all the time - and lately I've taken to wearing my hair in a knot on my head - all the time - and smelling like eau de sour milk.
This time, however, I wanted to hug her. I will forever love her for this quote, in response to who she thinks is heroic:
My younger sister is my hero: She’s a mom and an accountant for the state of West Virginia. She’s able to juggle a job, kids, volunteer work and church, and she still manages to cook dinner every night without feeling bogged down. There are lots of people out there who are literally heroic, but what she does counts too.
Someone who realizes that loving, cooking, working, balancing, juggling, going slightly insane, volunteering - living life - counts. That waking up every day and working to make it a better day is something to be celebrated.
It didn't hurt that she confessed to feeling sheepish about hugging the Boston Red Sox's mascot - a giant red sock. "Why did I have to hug the sock? Just say hello like a normal person."
Sometimes I metaphorically hug a sock too - it's nice to know I'm not the only goofball.
Tuesday, October 23, 2007
And This is the Other Reason(s) I Moved...
We're sleeping with the windows open, to keep our bedroom cooler than the rest of the house. The Frontier has rabbit brush, sage brush and grass. Three things to which I am highly allergic, which pollenate in the fall.
It has been a great reminder of one good thing about pregnancy - I had zero allergy or asthma issues, which is great since I couldn't take any of my normal meds (still can't, since I'm nursing, but that's another rant).
Even worse, however, the past three weekends in The Frontier have been C-R-U-M-M-Y. Snow, wind, rain and freezing temps.
Of course, our cold-weather clothes are still in the various boxes that haven't been unpacked. *sigh* I had forgotten how long winter is in this place and how dark, gray and gloomy it is when it really storms. The mountains seem to block every bit of light that might seep through the heavy cloud cover. It is during winter that the mountains make me feel closterphobic.
I turned to Himself a couple of days ago and said, "And now I remember the OTHER reason I left this place ..."
I hate winter.
I hate inversion.
I hate driving in snow.
Give me ridiculous people freaking out over forecasted snow, snow days and the wide open horizons of a Northern Virginia winter any day.
It's only October, and I already feel like hibernating ...
It has been a great reminder of one good thing about pregnancy - I had zero allergy or asthma issues, which is great since I couldn't take any of my normal meds (still can't, since I'm nursing, but that's another rant).
Even worse, however, the past three weekends in The Frontier have been C-R-U-M-M-Y. Snow, wind, rain and freezing temps.
Of course, our cold-weather clothes are still in the various boxes that haven't been unpacked. *sigh* I had forgotten how long winter is in this place and how dark, gray and gloomy it is when it really storms. The mountains seem to block every bit of light that might seep through the heavy cloud cover. It is during winter that the mountains make me feel closterphobic.
I turned to Himself a couple of days ago and said, "And now I remember the OTHER reason I left this place ..."
I hate winter.
I hate inversion.
I hate driving in snow.
Give me ridiculous people freaking out over forecasted snow, snow days and the wide open horizons of a Northern Virginia winter any day.
It's only October, and I already feel like hibernating ...
Tuesday, July 10, 2007
It's Getting Hot in Here!
Yesterday, for what is probably the fifth time in seven weeks, the air conditioning at The Factory died.
It was miserably hot ... painfully hot ... and with Baby Girl taking up my insides, I can't cool down once I get hot. The office manager took pity on my and sacrificed her fan for me. She also made sure to use me as an example of how desparate we were when communicating with the building people and the a/c company.
I didn't think much of it, except I dressed in the most cool clothing I own this morning that is work-appropriate (remind me again why maternity clothes come seemingly only in polyester?). I got in, all the lights were off to reduce heat. And everyone was working in the conference room, with the portable room air conditioner laboring on what sounded like its last breath.
It was then I discovered that the a/c would not be fixed until July 19 - nine days away. At this point it's not really necessary to point out that we're in the middle of a 100+ degree heat wave here, nor that this morning the office was warmer than it was outside (it clocked in at 90 degrees. It hadn't even reached 80 outside yet).
By 10 a.m. we'd crammed so many people in the conference room we'd negated the weak output of the room air conditioner. We can go home to work, but I don't have Internet access yet, which means I have no way of communicating with the outside world once I leave. It is days like today that I desparately miss my BlackBerry and the my wireless network card on my former laptop. I could work from anywhere (including home, not that I'd rather be there than here at the moment).
So ... today's temporary solution is sitting on the world's most uncomfortable hard chair at a coffee shop down the street. They have free wireless AND the air conditioning works. I've already spent $4 in "guilt purchases" though - after all I am taking up an entire table (and their free wireless and their air conditioning) ALL DAY. This heatwave could get expensive.
I am already scoping out tomorrow's solution ...
It was miserably hot ... painfully hot ... and with Baby Girl taking up my insides, I can't cool down once I get hot. The office manager took pity on my and sacrificed her fan for me. She also made sure to use me as an example of how desparate we were when communicating with the building people and the a/c company.
I didn't think much of it, except I dressed in the most cool clothing I own this morning that is work-appropriate (remind me again why maternity clothes come seemingly only in polyester?). I got in, all the lights were off to reduce heat. And everyone was working in the conference room, with the portable room air conditioner laboring on what sounded like its last breath.
It was then I discovered that the a/c would not be fixed until July 19 - nine days away. At this point it's not really necessary to point out that we're in the middle of a 100+ degree heat wave here, nor that this morning the office was warmer than it was outside (it clocked in at 90 degrees. It hadn't even reached 80 outside yet).
By 10 a.m. we'd crammed so many people in the conference room we'd negated the weak output of the room air conditioner. We can go home to work, but I don't have Internet access yet, which means I have no way of communicating with the outside world once I leave. It is days like today that I desparately miss my BlackBerry and the my wireless network card on my former laptop. I could work from anywhere (including home, not that I'd rather be there than here at the moment).
So ... today's temporary solution is sitting on the world's most uncomfortable hard chair at a coffee shop down the street. They have free wireless AND the air conditioning works. I've already spent $4 in "guilt purchases" though - after all I am taking up an entire table (and their free wireless and their air conditioning) ALL DAY. This heatwave could get expensive.
I am already scoping out tomorrow's solution ...
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)