The Child and I arrive home after a rare lunch out. The driveway has a mound of snow at the end from the city snow plow. I do not complain. Our city plows. Grand Rapids proper is an abandoned nightmare, with apparently fewer snow plows than Atlanta.
I park in the street, and haul He Who Won’t Walk on Snow up the drive. We undress for 5 minutes, wash hands forever, and dance around to the song that came with Uncle Mike’s toy fire truck sixty billion times. (Thanks for the present!) After our very precise nap routine (Nooooo, not THESE pajamas…THESE pajamas….No, sing the RAINBOW song!), I sneak off to do some quiet Facebooking. I’m just biding time so the kid falls asleep, and I can go tackle that snow pile.
Now, in our house, the unspoken agreement is that outdoor matters are not my matters. I just don’t do outside. Especially snow. The Swedelock loves the snow. Loves it. Every year we lived outside the Midwest just paaaained his winter-loving soul. We moved back here, and he was gleeful. I submit:
But recently my beloved husband confessed to me that he was done with the snow. Done. Done like a Thanksgiving turkey. So today I remember the definition of love that a good friend once gave me: Doing the dishes so he doesn’t have to. I resolve to remove snow.
After The Child’s hooting and whirring stops, and I can be certain he’s sleeping, I suit up for the job. I march to the kitchen and point the clicker at the garage, thinking, “Some day, we’ll mount this back on the wall.”
Click. Pause. Nothing.
Click. Pause. Nothing.
Repeat. Repeat. Repeat.
Think. Think. Think.
I retrieve the spare clicker that should, in theory, go on a car visor. But, as I’ve discussed, I can’t back up cars, so my car doesn’t go in the garage. (Sidenote: I still can’t believe I own two cars, after making it to 34 without owning one.)
Of course, the closet clicker doesn’t work.
I contemplate quitting, but remember my friend’s definition of love. Do it as a gift! Do. It. As. A. Gift. Love, stupid.
I walk to our garage’s side door, a little sad to learn that it’s unlocked. Guess that means I’ll be able to do this snow thing. Hm. Now how am I going to get this snow blower out of the garage? Oh, look! The garage door will open manually. Well, it’ll open high enough that I can get the snow blower out.
Now. I’m going to turn on this machine.
Pull. Pull. Poke.
Okay, you have a college degree, a reputation for problem-solving, and an immigrant grandmother rolling over in her grave because they probably didn’t even have shovels in Serbia. Such a fancy machine, and you don’t even know how to turn it on!
I head back inside, feeling sheepish that I have to consult the snow blower manual. But I’m organized as hell, so I know exactly where it is. Then I stub my toe trying to reach for the manual.
I sit down and write a blog post instead.
Honey, the garage door is stuck.