Being retired from a score of different occupations (primarily due to age and unpleasant side effects of some medications), having no car of my own and just being too lazy to walk the four miles to the nearest Starbucks; I home most of the time.
The SWMBO works, she has a car, an ipad and a gang of computers in her office. She calls me for the weather reports, “Is it snowing there? My mother called and said it was really coming down.”
I glanced out the window, “There’s a light dusting, but its 24 degrees out. Its OK.” This was at 0945.
“Mom just called and they had 5″ of snow in Canton (12 miles away)”. “Hon, get your mother a new ruler…its OK.” 1015
1215: “Mom says there’s a blizzard there and I should head home now. What do you think?”
“I think your mother lives on another planet, but come home, the mail box has a white cap, but I can see the kids at the end of the street playing…no blizzard.”
At 1235 the SWBO departed here office; at exactly the same time that every school, office, government facility, grocery store and filling station sent all of their employees home. Someone forgot to inform the DOT in and around the Atlanta area that there was a snow storm HAPPENING.
The SWMBO works 30 long miles from home; on the worst of days she arrives home an hour and a half after leaving the office parking lot. That Tuesday afternoon she would shatter that record.
I could but stay by the phone and answer her calls, every 15 minutes (thank God for car chargers), the tone and the color of those escalated and fell to deep lows…she was upset.
Between each call from the SWMBO there were for from the octogenarian mother…”Should I go and get her?…She may be stuck.” “No, mom, I really don’t think going out for her would be the best idea, she’ll be fine.”
It was approaching 0125 when I heard the crunching of ice from the road in front of the house. The street lamps and porch lights reflecting on the snow made colors and forms quite clear in the early morning hours and I saw quite clearly the SWMBO turning into the drive. And slide side ways down the road to the bottom of the hill. Even with windows closed tight I heard a familiar tone, normally reserved for discussions of my coffee spills on the stairs, her sweet language that would cause a tattooed biker to blush.
The cold night air carried the sound of an engine revving, the grinding of gears and the SWMBO shouting, “STAND AWAY FROM THE BATHROOM.” as she tacked the car into the drive.
She was but a blur as she entered the house, she mumbles still from behind the closed door.
I know this is going to become my fault.