When H*ll Freezes Over

It’s official. Massachusetts elects a Republican and H*ll is literally freezing over. At least it is for DC. So, for my Mid-Atlantic readers, I thought I would re-run a column that has become a yearly standard up here in Boston. Ironically, it first ran the year the Red Sox won the World Series ... Hmmmm. Could this be even more fodder for the folks who refer to Boston as the Hub of the Universe?

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As I look out my window -- the one that isn’t blocked by a snowdrift -- I find myself trapped in a scene from The Day After Tomorrow. Note to Dennis Quaid: If you’re trekking around in the snow somewhere in the vicinity, please feel free to rescue me from spending yet another snow day with my 5-year old. While I sit here and daydream of Dennis, between never-ending bouts of shoveling, I’ve noticed that when it comes to snow days we all have our own individual way of dealing with them.

The Survivalist (A/K/A “The Panicked Parent”). If there ever were two words that cause normally rational parents to panic - besides “head lice” and “slumber party” - it’s “snow day.” Snow days mean no child care (backup, emergency or otherwise) and the sudden need to come up with activities for children who, while surrounded by hundreds of toys, still have the nerve to proclaim, “I’m bored.” It means holding conference calls while wearing a clown nose and juggling oranges. Yes, it’s possible if you have one of those nifty headsets.

It also means that right after your preschooler is appropriately bundled to go sledding in 10 degree weather, he will inevitably have to go to the bathroom; and that on your second attempt to go to the sledding hill, he will then get stuck in a snowdrift from which you will pull him out, only to leave behind a boot. After you dig out the boot (shaking as much snow out of it as possible) you will try to replace it on your child’s now frozen foot only to have him cry and scream at you for trying to freeze his foot off. Finally, in your third attempt to go sledding, you will leave the house with extra socks, mittens, hats and a large dose of Kahlua in your king-sized travel mug of coffee.

The Always Essential Employee. This is the employee who deems him or herself so essential that a blizzard, a declared citywide snow emergency, and even a 2-hour E! Television special report on “Why Brad and Jen Broke Up ... 10 years later,” will not keep them away from the office. To quote Brian McGrory of the Boston Globe this week, “The more essential you regard yourself, the less you probably are.” Generally, I’ve noticed that the individuals who deem themselves the most essential are those with small children at home. Who could blame them? More Kahlua, please!

The Fearless Four-Wheeler. What’s two feet of snow to someone who finally gets to use their four-wheel drive SUV that they find so essential for city living? Of course, most “city-road” warriors have no idea how to drive in bad weather; but that’s not going to stop them because they apparently have superpowers. However, these powers do not also include the ability see through whiteouts like Superman, or sprout spikes on ice patches like the Batmobile. Unfortunately, they seemed to have neglected to put this in the manuals.

The Parking Space Tyrant. These are the folks who live by the motto: “I shoveled it, therefore I own it.” Now, I can understand that after spending six hours shoveling out your car, there is a certain pride of ownership and a feeling of entitlement to that parking space. But, it doesn’t matter what sort of marker you put there – milk crates, folding chairs, your Great Aunt Edna – you do not own the space, and I guarantee you that your Fearless Four-Wheeling neighbor has his eye on it.

The Snow Lover. This is your perennially chipper neighbor (whose kids have long since gone off to college), who walks by with his dog and comments, “Don’t you think this is beautiful?” To which I have to stop myself from replying, “As a barely surviving parent who lost the essential employee argument and is in my fifth hour of shoveling and still have yet to locate my non-four wheel drive vehicle under this eight-foot tall snow drift, don’t you think I should whack you upside your head with my shovel?”

Instead, I smile pleasantly, remind myself that this is the most I’ve seen of my neighbors since last winter and then I offer him what’s left of my Kahlua.

P.S. If, by chance, anyone happens to bump into Dennis, please ask him to stop by the liquor store on his way over. I seem to be out of Kahlua.

Comments

[K]

did you write this? odd to see no attribution.

[Diane Danielson/CEO, Downtown Women's Club]

I was the author as noted in the "Posted by" status at the bottom. We try to encourage writers to include their bio but since I end up writing 80% of the content, I sometimes forget. Good reminder though.