Hark! It approaches…
George came home from work last night, put on his giant snow boots, his puffy snow jacket, and his knit cap, and immediately turned around and went back outside to clear the snow from the Grady poopy area and the driveway. The city plow had gone by in the last hour, so there was a sizable mountain at the end of the driveway. An hour later, all was clear and he was warming himself over my homemade chicken nuggets. And no, my gutter-minded friends, that is not a euphemism for anything.
The thing about George and snow is that he hates to move it. Rather passionately, really. We have worked out a chore division that left him moving snow (I mow the lawn). He generally keeps the hate to a gentle simmer, but occasionally it will boil over to declarations of “That’s it, we are moving to a condo!” or “That’s it, we are moving to Arizona!” or “That’s it, we are moving after I murder the plow driver!”. You see, the city plow driver always does one last swipe after George has completed his removaging. Which necessitates one more expletive-filled de-snowing.
Last night, though, the snow had tapered off and our street was as clear as it ever gets and we felt that it would be ok. There would be no more passive-aggressive snow plow sneakery for the evening.
Later, I was in bed reading and he and Grady had fallen asleep (they both fall asleep in, like, 7 seconds (irritating)) and we were snuggled up under our 2 blankets, separate quilts and individual down comforters ready for a long winter’s nap.
Suddenly I heard the basso profundo of the city plow approaching. Really, city plow? Where were you all day when I drove* my wildly weather inappropriate car through Hothian drifts into my driveway? Where were you last Wednesday, when we didn’t get plowed until the snowstorm was completely over? And now? It has not snowed for 2 hours. Yet here you are, and I am going to have to break it to my husband that you gave him the present of an early morning workout.
From beneath the blankets, from beneath the quilts, from beneath the comforters a muffled sound works its way out to my ears, said so softly yet so filled with resignation…
…”God Damn It.”
* And by drove I mean that we (my car and I) careened from one side of the unplowed road to the other in a ballet of terror, my face stuck in a rictus of impending death and sure knowledge that if I live I will be paralyzed and George will have to care for me, Boxing Helena style.