For God’s Sake, Stop It!

Snow, Snow, Snow
Click me for a panorama of winter panic

I know, I know. This image looks familiar. You’re tired of seeing snow on my blahg. I’m tired of seeing snow out my window. It just doesn’t stop. I’m mad as hell, and I’m not going to take it anymore! And this is coming from a dyed-in-the-wet-wool-socks snow lover. If I were a kid again and my father were shoveling the walk and snow-blowing the driveway while I stood in the doorway, a cup of hot chocolate warming my hands, instructing him in the proper method of snow removal, everything would be fine. But now it’s me who has to shovel that son-of-a-bitch-ing walkway, knock snow off the huge yew bushes with a too-short broom, and worst of all, carry bags of seeping, malodorous trash over snowbanks at least as tall as me–not very successfully, I might add. (You try getting the stains and stenches of soured milk, rendered duck fat, and a moldering chicken from the back of the fridge out of your only winter jacket, and then look me in the eye and say, “But it’s so pretty outside, David.”) I don’t give a rat’s ass if it’s pretty and cozy and safe. My detestation of manual labor and laundering has far outstripped my love of the white stuff. 

I never thought I’d say this, but I want heat. I want sticky sweat on the back of my neck. I want long–long as in vernal-equinox-long–days. Hell, I’d even cut the grass with the push lawnmower if it meant I didn’t have to go through another winter like this. Of course, the biggest joke is that I’m trapped in this house and I can’t even make some of those incredible snowbound dishes like Blizzard Beef, Roast Pork in Milk, or Roast Chicken with Pancetta and Olives. No, Brilliant Me didn’t go shopping to prepare for the storm, because as of bedtime last night, nary a snowflake had fallen. So instead I’m stuck with Lean Cuisines, ancient frozen skinless chicken breasts, and a few boxes of pasta from Eataly–and no sauce. (Note to self: Tell The One what a genius idea it was to clean out the pantry, fridge, and freezer before we went away to Charleston for a long weekend.)

Oh, go ahead, ignore me. It’s fine. I’ll just sit here in the dark and bitch. Oh yeah, didn’t I mention the power went out again? At least I have Devil Cat to keep me warm.

David Leite's signature

Comments

  1. Wait…wait…wait… I cannot find my damn violin. Seriously, do you know how many years in a row I have been begging, praying, dancing for snow? That huge blizzard a couple years ago that had every single city, town and village all over Europe from top to bottom buried under white?… well, it was dry and snowless in Nantes. And only in Nantes. Boo hoo I want snow. I’ll even help take out the trash. But you know, you can always join me down in Florida in April.

  2. Commiserations. As a former New Yorker (Westchester area) now living in the UK for 9 years, I thought I’d left the white stuff behind. This winter has been the worst in years and years and after seeing my daffodils covered with snow this morning, I’m ready to make Blizzard Anything. No one here even has snow tires.. they live in a dreamworld of Downton Abbey.

    1. Wait, June. You don’t all live in Downtown Abbeys, where the snow fall gently upon former enemies who are now lovers destined to be married only to have him killed in a car crash that upsets the very female and gay viewership of PBS?

  3. Whoa! With all that steam coming off your neck, take that rant outside and you’ll melt all the damn snow. 😉

  4. Aw, doll, I offer my commiseration. The two hours spent shoveling the other morning took a lot of the sheen off of the “Oh, the snow is so pretty” from the day before.

    Life would be much easier if we had the ability to blink, “I Dream of Jeannie”-style, provisions into our homes.

    Be sure to hydrate, please.

  5. All winter I have been wanting to curse my cousin who lives in Georgia and gets all excited every time there is snow forecast for NYC, where I live. Today I just sent him a link to you blog. I am sick of winter, sick, I tell you.

    1. Judith, and did he answer with some terribly Southern, terribly pithy reply? And NYC in a snowstorm is the worst. Well, AFTER the snow storm. It’s white for a millisecond.

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