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It Snows Up Here. My Husband And I Have Conversations.

@maitri: The roads are slick up here in northeast Ohio. Lots of cars where they shouldn’t be. To think D scoffed at my 4WD vehicle.

I have no problem with snow. It’s only when it sneaks up on me while I am ill-equipped to deal that snow and I have words. Last night, Ms. No Hat And “Fashion” Boots here walked out into slick, snowy, did I mention slick northeast Ohio. Behold.

That’s what it looked like out there. Yup, all blurry like that, because when it gets cold and dry outside, the contact lens in my gimpy left eye decides to act up, which defeats the whole purpose of ditching glasses that fog up in lieu of contact lenses, innit? Achilles had his heel. My mother forgot to dunk my left eye in the Styx. Probably didn’t want to have to deal with any obviously impending infection. Dettol, take her away.

All wheel drive, not 4-wheel drive, D corrected as we inched towards the grocery store. “You don’t need all-wheel drive to drive in weather like this. You can have one-wheel drive and just drive real slow, like you’re supposed to anyway.” Ok, fair enough, but then, in these moments of Northwoods he-manhood, D goes on and on and rips off his shirt to reveal a big glowing W and launches into, “I’m from northern Wisconsin, where the only time I’ve run off the road and into a snow bank in my little, piece of shit, rear wheel drive car is when I was doing 65 and hit the brakes.”

Me: “What did you do that for?”

D: “For fun.”

Me: “How did you get your car out?”

D: “Leave it there or call Tom McDonald to come pull me out.”

Back in those days when they didn’t have cellphones, this means that he would have to get out of the car, bundle up like Randy from A Christmas Story (yeah, “my kid brother looked like a kid about to pop!” Randy) and trudge through the snow uphill both ways to the nearest friend’s house and use their phone. Not like my cellphone works in 90% of this godforsaken county, but I’ll take my chances with the 2000s, thanks.

Seasons Greetings! beamed down from the front of the grocery store as we drove into its mess of a parking lot.

D: “Expectant Mother parking. What a load of shit. What’s next? Chimps With Limps parking?”

Me: “That is SO rude. Pregnant women need every break they can get. You don’t know what it feels like to carry a big, squirmy, frontal weight along with your fat ass for nine months.” (Neither do I, but I’m not the one in fascist opposition to simple concessions made for someone with a bun in the oven. Hell, had I been D’s mom and given his birth weight, I’d have demanded parking inside the store.)

D: “I sure do. I’ve had one for fifteen years. Where’s my break?”

Me: “Well, if you slip and fall while crossing the trans-Siberian parking lot, your fabulous beer gut isn’t going to get hurt.”

Just then, a sound descended upon us like a thousand broken trumpets heralding the arrival of a lesser angel. Great, I thought, it’s end days and God said, “Hey, Yomvael or Kawkabel, what say one of you runs on ahead and takes care of northeast Ohio? Gabriel will bat cleanup later when he’s done filing the Armageddon Phase I project plan and budget with me.” But, no, it wasn’t junior flunkie nephilim, but a flock of Canadian geese jetting southward with a startled urgency that can only be likened to the look on Admiral Ackbar’s face timbre of Admiral Ackbar’s voice when he realized It’s A Trap! Poor geese, the wind blew so hard they couldn’t even stay in their consummate V. Vaya con dios, save a margarita for me.

I’m not one to let things go. It’s not that I don’t want to, but much like an ancient, rusted bear trap, I can’t. “So, you’re saying pregnant women shouldn’t be given special consideration. They shouldn’t be able to park close by like the handicapped.”

D: “No. What? Can we just buy our groceries and get out of here?”

Me: “Wait, did I just refer to pregnant women as handicapped?”

D: “Look. Handicapped parking. Senior citizen parking. Expectant mother parking. Chimps with limps parking. Where’s the line? Anyone can fake a limp. Soon, you’re going to have chimps all over the place saying, ‘I can fake a limp like a pro. Look at me. I’m like John Wayne with a load in his pants.’ Where’s the line?”

Me (squealing with laughter while imagining a chimp in a cowboy outfit dragging his fake broken leg across the saloon floor): “You’re just awful.”

Our conversations never end. They simply end up like this.

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