Ice Capades

The first eighteen years of my life were spent in Southern California, where earthquakes are an everyday occurrence not worth a Facebook status, yet a single rainstorm shuts down a city for days. After that, I went to college in Ohio, walking everywhere I needed to go in the small town. Whenever it snowed, I tromped around in rain boots, because that was all I had. I still don't know what those snow-wiping-brushes are called. When The Boy gave me one in November, I thought it might be a large grooming device, part of a weird insult about needing a bigger brush. For sloughing, or something.

Clearly, I am not a winter person.

Bundle up out there - temperatures have dropped below sixty-five.

So when I moved to Pennsylvania, I approached winter with more naive enthusiasm than actual knowledge.

"How hard can it really be to drive in a little snow?" I thought, as December and January passed away, all bright and mild. "I'm sure it'll be easier to pick up than . . . crabs. Either kind."

Friday afternoon it snowed, settling in a powdery layer perfect for crunching through in my dainty, ankle-high "boots."

"Easy peasy!" I said as we walked along. "I am the Queen of Snow! You know, in California, it can be really dangerous, when the rain brings up all the oils in the road? Gets pretty crazy. Not like this."

The Boy just smiled and held my hand.

Monday's forecast called for a Wintry Mix, but I wasn't too worried. Most of the snow had already melted over the weekend, and the weather here is always milder than predicted. Hurricane Sandy was basically a drizzle. I'd just take the main roads to work, and it would all clear up by lunchtime.

When I woke up Monday morning, all was white and slippery; but I would not be deterred from my phone-answering, letter-mailing, paper-shredding office duties by a little bit of snow. I checked the forecast one more time, brushed the snow off my car with the Big Slougher, and started out.

Driving a little slower than usual, I turned onto the main road. And turned. And turned. And stepped on the brake, which ground onto itself with an awful crunching noise. The car didn't slow.

And that was when I panicked.

My brain started shouting out every bit of advice I'd ever heard about driving on icy roads, but not in any helpful order:  STEERING -- PUMP -- SLIDE -- BRAKES -- FLASHERS -- CALM -- CRASH -

Then somehow, after drifting diagonally through the intersection, I was not only on the right road, but facing forward in the proper lane. I still couldn't see well, but that was because even my eyeballs were sweating.

"WELL THAT WASN'T SO BAD," I said out loud to no one. "IT CAN'T GET WORSE THAN THAT, RIGHT?"

As I continued driving, much slower now, the snowflakes, which had started off so charming as they starred my hair and dotted my gloves, turned to freezing rain. The windshield slipped feebly over the layer of ice, and I clutched desperately at the wheel.

IT IS ALRIGHT. EVEN THOUGH MY WINDSHIELD WIPERS HAVE BETRAYED ME AND APPARENTLY I SHOULD HAVE THOUGHT TO STRAP RUNNERS ON MY TIRES AND JUST SKATE TO WORK ACROSS THE FIELDS: STICK THE CAR IN NEUTRAL, GIVE IT A GOOD PUSH, THEN SIT ON THE HOOD TO STEER, LOUNGING LIKE CLEOPATRA IN HER PORTABLE COUCH-BED AND - AND WHAT THE HELL SORT OF RAIN IS THIS?!!

I switched on the defroster, prepared to stick my head out the window to see the road if I had to. For some reason, the idea of pulling over or turning around seemed beyond my capabilities. I could only go on.


Never. stop. driving.

The crust of frozen droplets slowly chipped away like old nail polish, bit by bit with every jerky swipe of the wipers, and I hunched down to see through a crack in the ice sheet.

WELL, THIS IS TURNING OUT JUST FINE, I thought, taking comfort in the fact that the sedan in front of me was also sliding the tiniest bit. Still, as I neared the second turn of my drive, I thought back to what my friend had told me a few weeks ago when I visited him in Ohio and parked in some mud, so that my car had to be pushed out when I left:

"Carrie, your tires are almost bald. You're gonna die in the snow. But seriously, though. You are going to die."

I am going to die, I thought with the calm clarity that only adrenaline and a thick layer of sweat can give. On a Monday morning. Listening to Passion Pit.

I braked to stop at the corner, but again I was met with the grinding whine. FOR WHOM THE BRAKES GRIND - THEY GRIND FOR ME.

I didn't really think that. Because I had switched into Action Mode: If I couldn't stop, I could at least turn, so I began wildly honking my horn to warn any oncoming cars of my presence. And with the slow certainty of a shipwreck, I drifted around the corner, a riotous parade float of pure terror.


It was horrible!

The man I was sure I'd crash into swerved easily around me. As he passed he gave me a confused look because, as he saw it, a tiny woman in a Toyota was making quite a production out of crawling around a street corner. Then I think he noticed the California license plate, and he understood.

After that, the roads cleared up a little, but I still put on "America" at the next stoplight, just in case. Because that's a song to die to.

I told one of The Ladies at work about my trial, and she gave me a little sneer and said, "Oh. You're one of those drivers."

*           *          *

Today it's been up in the 50s. I saw people tanning at lunch. The Boy and I may go for a picnic.

But I hear it hailed in California.



Images via Etsy, Tumblr, UWStout.

Willpower

Last night I made a lasagna: beautiful, rich sauce, a double layer of noodles, whole-fat ricotta with herbs and Parmesan mixed in, and about ten pounds of cheese on top of that.

Just as I put it in the oven, I received this text from my best friend:

"This weekend I'm doing a three-day detox cleanse that only lets me eat like . . . veggie soup, smoothies, and raw salads. If I text you for willpower, don't let me stray!"

I glanced into the oven, where the lasagna layers were just starting to meld together and the shaved bits of Parmesan cheese on top were melting into a bubbling, gooey mass of cholesterol.

"You can have all of my willpower if you want," I texted back. "I never use it."

All this indulgence is exhausting.

Images via Tumblr.

Assisting the Elderly

Because the firm where I work handles elder law and estate planning, we have a lot of old people coming in all the time. They start to look the same after a while, all smelling faintly of baby powder and sort of see-through, like fish.*

Of course, old people are wonderful when they're cute and giving out sassy advice and wearing ironic sweaters without the irony and being just a little bit racist in everything they say. However, our old people are not often like that.

When people decide that the time has come for an elder law consultation, it means they have death on their minds. And it shows. I can feel it from the moment they open the door - the winter air sweeping in like those old icy hands of Death.

I hear him before I see him: the slow, deliberate shuffle - the wheezing, rankling gasp for breath - that awful, wet lip-smacking -- SMACK! SMACK! -- it's the sound of my nightmares - and as the stench of decaying flesh surrounds me, choking me, I stand to shout DON'T TAKE ME YET! ---

but then it just turns out to be Mr. Henderson here for his two o'clock, and can we please hurry this up because it's past his bedtime.

But all that's only if they can actually make it to the door. One lady pulled into the parking lot at 11:50 for a noon appointment. I watched her struggle to open the car door, feeble arms straining like Sisyphus'. She hauled herself out of the car, turning to make sure no limbs had dropped off during the drive and been left behind on the seat. Even though I knew she had straightened up already, it still looked like she was sitting down.

"POSTURE!" I always scold them.

They never listen.

Then came the long trek up the front path, all stilted and unnatural because old people seem to forget that they have knees.

There's no way she'll make it up the steps, I thought, leaning forward to get a better view through the window. Most people would probably have rushed out to help her, but I don't believe in infantilizing the elderly. She is a grown-ass adult. Of course, I wouldn't help a baby up those slippery steps, either. HOW ELSE WILL THEY LEARN?

Somehow, she made it. Twelve minutes after she parked her car.

"Irma Livengood," she warbled, looking at her watch. "Goodness! I was early when I got here - what happened?"

Really, the elderly need to learn to fend for themselves as they get all soft and floppy-skinned. It's for their own good.

"Where is your bathroom, young lady? I'll be needing some assistance."

GET OUT.



*This is why I don't tell you the name of the firm where I work. Also why I should probably write with a pen name.



Image via Nursing Home Care.

Party Like Jehovah!

For me, the new year really begins on my birthday. There's a nice week to settle down from the snowballing holidays, and then comes my birthday, along with the sobering realization that I am now twenty-three years old and have done nothing with my life.


HOORAY!

The Boy is in New York on a business trip this week. A fuse blew and the circuit breaker tripped Sunday night, so the apartment has been half-dark for days. This morning I woke up with my throat all scratchy, and I considered slinking down to the bottom of the bed and dying, like a rat in a hole.

But instead I slid out of bed, amoeba-like, and slumped off to work under a grumbly sky. On my lunch break, I saw a bird get hit by a car. I drank some tea, and talked to the Amish, and then I went home.

And now, here I sit. Alone, in the dark, eating a bowl of soup and an entire cake. Wearing shark onesies. Softly singing, Happy biiiirthdaay tooo meee in a wobbly, wispy voice.

I'm calling it THE DARKEST BIRTHDAY, and I'm enjoying myself very much.

Still, I know what you're going to say. "Don't feel sorry for yourself, Carrie. Some people have never had a birthday party before - like poor people, and newborns. Some people never even acknowledge their birthdays, and they turn out okay."

You're right. Those people are called Jehovah's Witnesses, and they bring that upon themselves.  They sit there with all their own blood and drawl at each other, "Birthdays are sooo mainstream." They are the hipsters of religion, and I have no sympathy for them.

Jesus: The original hipster.

Images via flickr, 10 Cities 10 Years.