Waiting for Mr Snow Plow

It is snowing again. Yesterday, I went out to get the necessities to see us through the 6 inches of snow we are supposed to get today and tomorrow. I bought cereal, pop tarts, frozen pizza, milk and toilet paper. I did get a couple of the Bertoli baked dinners in case we felt like being romantic and pretending we were in a ski cabin in Gstaad. We also have good hot chocolate and plenty of mini-marshmellows.

I noticed on Sunday that the snow had turned much of the area to stark black and white. I appreciate the beauty of that. The snow hangs on the trees and the wind blows it against the rough hewn rocks on either side of the interstate. Icicles hang like daggers from the rocks. The sun sparkles on the ice, glittering like gem stones.

It is intoxicating until you have to get out in it. Then you see the yellow and brown patches surrounded by four toed prints; the black oily chunks someone's car left behind; the grey slush in the grocery store parking lot that seeps into your shoes like a commando on a mission to rob you of warm, dry feet and your pleasant attitude. All of this driving you back into the house and into your red and white polka dot robe only to discover that when you turn on the t.v. you get the whole searching for satellite signal message because there is snow on the dish. You are reminded, yet again, of the conversation you had with Hubby. The one where you specifically asked about snow interfering with the satellite reception and him assuring you that it wouldn't happen, because the guys in the boygirldfriend club at work all have it and they don't have any problems and if we did lose reception due to snow he would get out and clean it off, only when it does happen it is snowing like blue blazes outside and he whines about it not being safe to be on a ladder during a raging snow storm. Any reminders about his promise to deliver uninterrupted service are met with the phrase, "stream something on Netflix".

I would be in a better mood were it not for two (maybe three, depending on how you count them) things. First, somebody gave me their crappy cold, complete with runny nose, bleary eyes, and sore throat. If I knew who they were, I would hunt them down and sneeze in their face a couple of times to give it back to them, complete with my genetic mutation of the virus. I don't feel horrible, I just feel bad enough to be whiney.

Second (and third, depending on how you count), I have two shawlettes that I am knitting, both the Multnomah pattern. Before I can go any further, I have to rip both of them back at least one lace repeat due to an inability to successfully count to six. Generally, I am a ripper, but there is something about taking lace work back that makes me grumpy. I have tried all my tricks to no avail. I love lacework, but sometimes she's a bitch of a taskmistress. I think I'll just have to settle in with a glass of wine and do both of them at the same time. It's not like I will be going anywhere until the snowplow comes.