Let It Snow. And Snow Some More. And Some More After That.

If you're anywhere in the northeast of the U.S., or watching the news thereof, you know we're getting socked with a lot of wintry mix today, part of which has dumped anywhere from 5"-9" of snow before switching to rain tonight, and then we got blessed with the possibility of a couple more inches of snow later this evening on top of it all.

They cancelled school for today last night.

We already have a two-hour delay for tomorrow.

Snug as bugs in rugs.

I am explaining all of this to you for a reason.

So, first, let me state that I am currently home. Under a blankie. D'Artagan, Trooper, and Kimo are keeping close watch. We're enjoying Father Brown, although Kimo is sleeping through episodes and doesn't know whodunit and probably doesn't care. We are cozy. See? I am fine.

This is important. I am fine.

However.

Tonight was our scheduled fourth-quarter board meeting for the home owners association where I serve as secretary to said board. And there were...reasons...for keeping the meeting scheduled. And it isn't really my call to cancel a meeting. And I grew up in upstate New York; I know how to drive in the White Death. So, as of noon, when I hadn't heard from the board president that we were cancelling the meeting, I decided it would be smart to just pack up like I was going to spent the night at my mother's (this is her HOA) and drive out. That way, if it took me longer than normal (which it most definitely would; the drive usually takes about an hour), I had plenty of time.

I went out to clear off the car, and we had all three of yesterday's predicted 1"-3" of snow, plus incoming reinforcements.

In retrospect, I should have stopped there and just gone back into the house right then. But I soldiered on and started the drive after promising Hubby that I would turn around and come right back home if I ever reached a point in time where I said, "This is ridiculous and not worth the job."

To amuse myself (and because D'Artagnan and Trooper, while fine travel companions, are not exactly verbose), I kept track: two semis pulled over to the side of the interstate, just off to the side. Two semis pulled over, hoods up, engines cooling. Two semis completely jackknifed, one in the median, and the other off to the right shoulder, with three heavy wreckers blocking the travel lane as they got ready to winch it out. (Ever see the TV show Highway Thru Hell? I almost saw it in real life.) One dump truck, facing backwards in the median. One passenger car, same condition and location.

It took me almost an hour to go less than ten miles.

I told myself I would stop at Pickletown, normally about 40 minutes into the trip, and get lunch at the Wendy's there. It took me two hours to reach the restaurant. I knocked the ice off my wipers and went inside and spent half an hour thawing out, then texted my mom and my husband that I was leaving there and continuing on.

I didn't make it out of Pickletown. It sits on several steep hills, which I found I couldn't navigate. I got nearly got myself horribly stuck, so I made a three-point-turn on the side of a hill and let gravity fix my problem. Then I hollered, "Okay, Google," at my phone and ordered the assistant to call my boss. I was canceling the meeting whether my boss wanted to or not at this point.

"Are you still in Cburg?" he asked. No, he did not say hello.

"I'm in Pickletown. But I'm going home."

"Good. Cancel the meeting."

I drove back to Wendy's and sent out the requisite notices. I was relieved the drive home only took me an hour and a half instead of two hours, but then, I had no jackknifed semis to contend with on that leg of the trip.

I spent four hours on the road.

Ridiculous? Yes. Insane? Probably. Should never have happened? Also likely. It is what it is. Like I said, I'm home. I'm safe. Nothing happened to either me or the car (although I did have a harrowing moment or two).

So my ankle is barking at me. It doesn't like these conditions under the best of circumstances, which is blankie-covered on the couch and not leaving, and possibly with a hot rice bag tucked against the joint. Thus, when I got home, I parked it on the couch, with buddies and blankies and books and Father Brown.

I did not even move for dinner, which Youngest made (spaghetti and meatballs). I was served too much, so I hobbled over to the top of the stairs a little bit ago and called for another person in the house (Hubby and the girls are watching The Flash series reboot together).

Oldest came out of the den to see what I needed.

I held out my plate. "I need you to cover my plate in plastic wrap and put it in the fridge. Then I need some blackberry ginger ale--" Oh, my gosh, have you had this stuff? Canada Dry makes it--"and I would like two brownies, please."

Oldest eyed me skeptically. "They're pretty big brownies. Are you sure you want two?"

Child, please. "I really think I can handle two brownies. Please."

There is not a brownie that I've found yet that I can't eat two of. Bring me my ginger ale and brownies, kid.

And that is why I told you this story.

By the way, the brownies are not as big as advertised. I will have a third later.