I like the lawlessness of a snowstorm. The excuse to eat pizza and French onion dip. Wrap myself in dueling fleece patterns. Call a regular night filled with regular things a SNOW PARTY! During a storm years ago Chuck and I took turns jumping off a railing and into a drift. We sat on a mound on what we believed was the side of the road and drank beer wrapped in mittens. People cross country skied or took snowmobiles to the bar. It's very exciting to see how many creative ways there are to be snowbound.
When I woke up this morning there were some tells: Whipping wind and the windows were covered in a white film. Two yahoos busted down the street in a rusty old truck with a snowplow kind of attached. A shitty setup including a cockeyed scoop and extra bouncy shocks. They went up the street, back down backward, back up the street around and down. By the end of it they'd recklessly plowed in all the cars and then skidded away Dukes of Hazard style. This bit of lawlessness meant pulling a circus stunt with my car to get it out of a drift, and that I'd later have an important conversation about what it means when your tail pipe won't stop billowing steam. Fine. I'll get my oil checked, okay?
I had to drive downtown early in the afternoon and the whole time I death-gripped the steering wheel and cursed merging traffic. "Oh my God," I thought. "If I die, this will be the last song I ever hear." ("Mr. Know It All" by Kelly Clarkson).
Still. Snowstorm. Love it. And someone plowed our sidewalk and the street in front of the house and shoveled our porch. Turns out the fake limp I've adopted is really coming in handy.