Passing the Buck, and Other Stories to Tell in the Snow.

If I listened solely to my Tennessee friends, I'd be halfway convinced that the apocalypse is creeping slowly north, and that we're all destined to die in a snowy explosion, our frozen hands making flailing slapping motions at the old lady trying to wrangle the last jug of milk from the dairy cooler.

I called my mom last night, and she picked up the phone crying, which is usually not just bad news, but outright identity shattering, if recent history has taught me anything. "Is everything okay?" I prepared for anything.

"Yeah, just....just, are you safe?"

"Am I safe? Well," I looked around in my kitchen, where I'd been attending to some beef stew that had been simmering peacefully for three hours, "I mean, yeah."

Turns out, the drive from her job in downtown Knoxville to her house in South Knoxville took about two hours to make because of the icy snow that started at noon and continued into the evening. This is a drive that should have taken no more than fifteen minutes on good old Chapman Highway. I could understand anxiety, but the woman had been pushed to the crumbling edge of her sanity. I could also understand if I was actually living in or near Tennessee; however, I sat in two feet of snow myself in the great state of Vermont, one thousand very long, very safe miles away.

She shakily relayed her tale of the drive home, the deadlock in front of the Kroger on Chapman Highway, the cars gnarled up like pretzels on the side of the road, the usually decent people of the town gnawing at the fleshy calf muscles of the weak or sick. "I don't know if they're going to make us go in tomorrow. It's so snowy, you can't even drive on it. I guess it's about at two inches now. How much do you have?" I told her. "Oh my God," she said, "oh my God. Well, has it kept you from anything? Did they call off your work, or what happened?"

"I think they're pretty used to dealing with it up here," I said, "and if they called off work or school for every day where over five inches of snow fell, the town would have to shut down until about late March." She was quiet. "But that's just a conservative estimate, I guess. Maybe mid-April."

When I talked to Will D. later, he told me that the clinic he was rotating through in Rogersville had closed its doors at four in the afternoon to the great disgust of the patients needing care. "I guess it was just too snowy for us to say," he said, "and goddamn, there is nothing on the shelves at Wal-Mart right now, you should see this!"

I don't want to be one of those smarmy people that says "Guys, get it together, it's just snow!" but apparently I am, since I used that very phrase more than once tonight. I remember what it was like driving in Tennessee during snow days, and it was quite the harrowing experience, but as someone who's now schlepped to work in fresh powder, smacked a blizzard in it's snow-face at 3 in the morning, and dug my car out from under almost 3 feet (all within the same two-week span), I can't help but want to scoff a little (just a little). And do you want to know what I blame for my new smugness?

Snow tires.

The day I put snow tires on my car is the day I lost my snow-complaining privileges in the world at large. I don't even have the good, studded kind - I have the regular cross-your-fingers kind. But when you have them, you have them, and that's it. "God, can you believe it? I couldn't even see the road this morning, I saw three dead, frozen people." "You got your snows?" "Yeah." "Oh, well, you're fine then."

But I suppose if you live in a place where you need snow tires, you lose the privilege to complain about snow tires. Where does this end? When can I complain again?!

In fact, today I have to go to Wal-Mart in Williston, as my olive oil has gone rancid and I have five dollars left on a gift card for there; somehow find a new headlight for my car; and return some stuff to various stores on Church Street. I'd ask Jesus to take the wheel, but he sees that I have snow tires, so he says I'll be fine.

Press On Me, We Are Restless Things.

I am in the midst of a cooking frenzy.

Having got rid of the kitten what was boarding in my spare room yesterday (Jenna named it Odell), I find myself bored. It's amazing the gap a tiny little kitten can leave in your life when it's gone. Now what will I have to tend to?!
I'll tell you - oat bread.

I already fucked up a pan of granola bars, because if you know me, you know I hate burnt stuff with a passion. The bottoms of these are burnt. Harumph harumph harumph. I might still eat them, purely out of pride. Next up to fuck up - oat bread. Wish me luck.
On the docket for dinner, in honor of Will's giving his life away to surgery rotation tomorrow - long-life udon noodles (with chicken, not tofu - sue me). I don't have sesame oil, but I really want to try out this recipe, and I have a ginger root I need to put to use. If I like it, I'll post the recipe. If I don't, pretend you never saw this.

Movie Lineup for tonight: United 93. Don't think about it too much, it's a little sick.

All the while, I should be 1) cleaning my house, 2) finishing my Peace Corps application, 3) finishing Joe Rice's packet to mail, 4) updating the Etsy site (yes, these are all important), 5) mailing my now delinquent electric bill, 6) LOOKING FOR DAMN PLACE TO LIVE in Vermont!....the list goes on and on.

My smug sense of superiority has really gotten out of control in the past few days since I found out my ex-fiance crapped his pants while they were on tour with the band, then told my sister "I guess I should call her." Don't do me any favors, deuce-dropper. Run away, and complete the transition to being your maladapted and delusional father. The deep-pocketed Squeeka will be there to save you! And, if not, I'm sure you'll figure out a stupid way to save yourself , and hopefully that way will not involve leaving a gob in your gabardines again. Take care, moran. Gahhhh.

(But still, it's a strange gap that such a small thing can make in your life.)