One of my dad’s favorite expressions fits oh-so-well with snow days.  This being my first year of life with a child in public school, I have already been indoctrinated on every holiday that must be celebrated by closing school, plus the constant “teacher work days”, “teacher inservice” and “teacher really needs a break from your bratty kids day” (that one I actually agree with).  Since the bulk of my youth was spent in Traverse City, the land of snow and gray skies, I associate snow days with pure, unadulterated joy.  Primarily because snow days in Northern Michigan are R-A-R-E. 

Now, though - not so much.  It is now Tuesday evening and tomorrow is yet another day the school will be closed “due to inclement weather”.  Mentioning again at the risk of being annoying that I am from Traverse City, the land where a snow day was NEVER called unless people were literally dying in their cars, buried alive in the 20 feet of snow that fell in a 2 hour period of time, combined with temps of -20 below, I have little tolerance for what snow days in Virginia mean.  The roads are clear and dry, but there’s a chance that some side road might have some crusty white stuff on it and someone might slip.  OH MY GOD CANCEL SCHOOL. 

Yeah, I’m bitter.

Which leads me to my analogy.  My dad has a saying.  In this case, it goes something like this.  “Snow days are like boobs.  One is not enough, and three is way too many.”  The original phrase inserts the word “Stinger” for “Snow Day”, one of his favorite drinks that my mom swears makes him “mean”. 

Three is way too many. The kids are cuckoo, there are no movies out they haven’t seen, we’re all tired of playing the snow, I spent $268 at the vet today so the expendable cash is a little low, and, according to my mom, too much tv causes asthma in kids.  Is that a wheeze I hear from upstairs?  I think it is.  God help me, they’ll probably cancel school on Thursday if all the snow doesn’t melt tomorrow.  Someone send me alcohol, and fast.  Someone also send me a rapid-acting inhaler for my children, because that asthma is a-comin’. 

More pictures are up on the March 2009 Snowstorm Extravaganza. 

I have lots to say but my day can be summed up in one experience.

I went to Hell today - meaning Wal-Mart.  The parking lot was jammed, as usual. The one spot that was open was seriously small because the person next to me had parked at an angle. I did the best I could to get in straight and still leave room to open the doors.  I’m sure you can see where this is going.

After an hour in Hell, I am unloading groceries and kids into the car when I see a scrawled note on a Tropical Smoothie napkin.  It said, “Hello.  It’s terrible that you have chosen to reproduce (he must have seen the car seats) and that you will be bringing more terrible drivers into the world.  You are selfish and inconsiderate and you should really learn to drive better.  Happy New Year.”

That is one angry dude who takes the time to write a note like that. Happy New Year to you too, asshole!

I ventured off to West End Ortho this morning in a cold rain, only to find out that although my appointment card said I should be there at 9.50, their computer said 8.50. I argued and bitched until they agreed to squeeze me in.  All I could focus on was getting my cast off, and I didn’t care how long I had to wait.  Finally I got in, they cut the cast off, and took x rays.  Lo and behold, no healing had taken place, but the doc said that it would take about 6 weeks for that to happen.  They put me in a slightly more comfortable splint that can be removed for showering (yay for clean hands) but needs to stay on the rest of the time. 

Apparently my selective hearing ignored the part about the splint and only heard “cast off”, which I equated with being healed.  Now I am trying to learn how to type with this new thing on my hand, and it’s like starting over again.  I was so hoping to finally get my fingers back! Guess I should stop procrastinating and wrap gifts - I was waiting until the cast came off. 

I used to have recurring nightmares where I’d walk into this horrible lit class I used to skip all the time, and find that I hadn’t done any of the coursework, and I was failing.  This, in real life, was the same lit class that made Toni Morrison boring. That’s just how BAD the prof was.  Doug and Zack were in the class with me, and we’d take turns attending and sharing notes.  It’s no wonder I used to dream about failing it as I have no idea how I passed it.  I also had recurring nightmares from junior high, where my friend Erica zoomed immediately to the upper echelons of the popular clique and I was left squarely behind wearing argyle and trying to avoid being slammed into lockers by random tough girls I later tutored in English (oh, sweet vengeance!!!). 

And then there’s the dream where I walk up to a group of beautiful, well-kept, healthiness-oozing girls, and they glance at me, and turn their backs.  Oh wait, that’s not a dream - that’s my daily bus stop with Lily! 

I know it’s not just me because a couple of other more “normal” looking neighbors no longer walk their kids to the bus stop. They actually drive them to avoid dealing with the women on my street.  I’ve learned, through various playdates and from being friendly at my pool, that my street has a “reputation”.  In addition to having a rep as the “bitchy street”, the “fake boobs street”, and “the street where you must be blonde to live here”, I’ve also learned that being asked to a “Lasagna Party” means you have been invited to a swinger party.  Thank god I’m chunky and brunette, cuz I’ve never been so happy to not have to turn down an invite to swap my husband for some random dude on my street!  Yay averageness!!!

Yeah, I’m dealing.  I’m a bit annoyed at my reaction.  Friday, I plastered a smile on my face and even applied LIPSTICK and walked to the bus stop.  As soon as I walked up, they literally turned their backs and continued talking about how Sarah Palin was the best thing since collagen injections.  I can be bitchy too - I asked one where she played tennis because she comes to the bus stop in the tightest tennis dresses and usually is still wearing them to the afternoon pickup.  I was hoping it would force her to admit that her tennis game was at 8 AM and she was still wearing her outfit because she thought she looked so “KEYYYOOOTE” in it.  Nope.  Of COURSE she plays at the Dominion Club - only lame-o’s like me belong to Wyndham’s Swim and Racquet club, and I’m super lame because I don’t even PLAY tennis anymore, let alone own any couture tenniswear!!! Is there such a thing?  Why yes, there is!  You can see the latest in tennis fashion at 7.20 AM on my street.  You can also see a lot of boob jobs and what I swear are butt lifts. There is no way these woman, having had multiple children, have rears like a perky apple. 

Of course, I could be jumping to conclusions.  They could be just absolutely wonderful women, and I could be a total bitch for wanting to throw up every morning when I drag my unwashed body to the bus stop to be greeted by 15 competing perfume fragrances and 42 cans of Aveda hairspray.  It’s truly fascinating to listen to them recapping their trips to New York for shopping while the “nah-neee” watches their angels or how their trip to Italy with their girlfriends went.  And I wonder, wouldn’t Mike and I be better off selling this house and moving back to the city, and using all the money we’d be saving to pay for private school?  Nahhhh.  If I survived junior high and high school, this ought to be a piece of cake. 

Today, heading to Little Gym for gymnastics:

Arden:  “Mommy, you are going too fast.”
Me:  “No I’m not.  I’m going the right speed for this road.”
Arden:  “Are you sure you aren’t going faster than the speed lemon?” 
Me:  “I’m quite sure, darling.”

Watch out for that deadly speed lemon!!!

And tonight, before I left for a fab girls night out (thanks Jenn!), Lily and Arden were playing Dinosaurs.  Good God.  There is nothing more annoying than Dinosaurs.  It involves the two of them screeching like Pterodactyls at the top of their lungs and growling like rabid cats and pinching each other.  The dinosaurs also enjoy smashing into each other and shaking the house with their yelling.  The dinosaurs also gave me a splitting headache.  If your kids want to play dinosaurs, you should run.