…because the slightest hint of a snow flurry in our area means BATTEN DOWN THE HATCHES AND GO BUY SOME MILK BECAUSE WE ARE ALL GOING TO DIE. Our local meteorologists will say “possibility of accumulation of less than one inch,” and within ten nano seconds all the gas stations are overrun and finding a parking spot at the grocery store or Target is IMPOSSIBLE and don’t even think of going to Wal-Mart because it’s like WWF and WWE just let loose all their second string wrestlers and there is NO WAY IN HELL you’re going to be able to get out with the loaf of bread and diapers you thought you’d “just pick up” while you’re there.
Two days ago our meteorologists had the NERVE to say accumulation of between six and ten inches. I thought the Rapture was happening, and I wasn’t invited anymore. No, really. Cars we’re all pulled up at Harris Teeter in parking spots they’d created just for themselves so that they could be the first to get the gallon of milk and case of beer to hold them through the STORM OF THE CENTURY. I walked by one car that still had a door open because obviously a box of Cheese-Its is worth having the stereo stolen out of your BMW. I went to get ingredients to prepare a winter feast (read: bagel bites and crap to make mini-pigs in a blanket) fit for a king, and it took me AN HOUR AND A HALF to spend $12.87. AN HOUR AND A HALF, INTERNET! Then I had to listen to Husband complain for the rest of the night as to how dumb weather people are because “there was not even a cloud in the sky, so, obviously, it was not going to accumulate ‘six to ten inches,’ but I’ll park the car at the bottom of the driveway anyway.”
Husband woke up every hour on the hour Friday night (kill me now) to check the progress of the non-existent snow. Finally (THANK GOD), around 4am it began to flurry, and the verbal report was “it looks like a light dusting.” At 5am, I was informed that the snow was “maybe an inch deep.” When his phone rang at 6am, I realized that all men must like to report on the progress of the weather, and if they can confirm it with each other, then it must be true and real and not just some elaborate plot your neighbor had to psych you out because really we all know that neighbors have that kind of time and those kinds of resources on hand.
At 6:45am, I couldn’t take it anymore. I got up, got dressed, and took the dog out. Husband decided we were going to go to Hardee’s for breakfast and to check out the rest of the town. Because we don’t get a lot of snow here, most people don’t know how to drive in snow. I learned this when I ALMOST DIED SIX TIMES on the way to Hardee’s because the same morons who went to buy the gallon of milk at Harris Teeter the day before and were in too much of a hurry to shut the door on their BMW drove past us on a ONE LANE road at LIGHTNING speed onto a BRIDGE and, really, we all know BRIDGES FREEZE FIRST. Thankfully, Husband can drive, and he avoided killing me so that I could get my coffee and biscuit at the Hardee’s.
Following near death, breakfast, and near death again, we went up to the time capsule that is my town and took some pictures. Though the Blackberry is not equipped with the most stellar of cameras, I thought it did okay.
The last one is really crap resolution, but if you squint and tilt your head left just a bit, you can make out the outline of a big brick building we ostentatiously call the “Governor’s Palace.” That’s right, Internet, we roll deep here in the ‘burg. Anyhoo, getting the pics almost made near death worth it, and we ventured safely back home before it got too bad. This morning, upon waking, we discovered about eight or nine inches of snow piled up outside. I made chocolate chip pancakes. We built a fire. And I’ve now decided that if it were to Rapture right now, the only thing that would really piss me off is that I haven’t been sledding yet. So before God decides to test all of that stuff out, and I get really pissed off, Husband is taking me on the Great Sledding Adventure of 2010. I’ll be sure to post updates from the emergency room via Twitter.