I want My Mommy....or a Good, Stiff Drink....

This was one of those days that you can see coming, and can do nothing about. The combination of a late night at a choral rehearsal that wasn't much fun, with Snowpocalypse in a place that doesn't deal with it well,  an unforgiving employer, and a real crapola day at work once I got there, has made me one cranky mama.

I love snow; love to watch it falling, love to look at it undisturbed, love to play in it.  I DO NOT love to commute in it. The Portland/Vancouver metropolitan area is a lot hillier than most outside folks would suspect, so a commute that's a no-brainer in Kenosha, Chicago, or Podunk is a hellatious obstacle course here. Fine. I've always loved a little adventure, but what galls me is that most workplaces (mine included) have absolutely no sympathy for those who must negotiate minefields of snow, ice, and birdbrain drivers in order to arrive at work in one piece. You're late? You eat it. 'Scuse me? I'm on time the other 22 days of the month, but one Snowmageddon day, and I get docked? Thanks so very much.  Grrrrrrr.

Once I arrived at work, not only was there no sympathy, but I had a boatload of voice mail messages wondering where the hell I was, why I hadn't done XYZ yet, and oh by the way, could you please order 15 dozen widgets by noon? (I arrived at 10:45 am.) Somehow, I had always presumed, not overtly but in the back of my mind, that by the time I was 55 years old, most of these picayune issues would be behind me, a thing of the distant past, and I would be valued and appreciated for the particular talents and experience which I bring to my position.  And I have an appointment with the Easter Bunny next week, too.

Luckily, I am married to a man who, while certainly not perfect, is about as close to perfect as one can get in a marital relationship.  Whether through habit or serendipity, we have managed to create a rhythm where we are never both in a foul mood at the same time.  And Lord knows, that's a real trick, because the opposite would be ever so easy.  When confronted by any one of a zillion annoying or serious situations generating worry or angst, one of us is always able to yank the other one along (kicking and screaming, usually) until they are safely out of their funk. Which is what Tim did for me today.  He shoveled not only the driveway, but an alley alongside the curb so that the rapidly growing snowmelt would run down to the storm drains instead of up everyone's lawn; got me safely to the bus; called to let me know when HE got to work safely (I'm a worry-wort), and promised me - and I actually believed him - that things would get better, that we would get through it together, and that the two of us together would prevail against the world. He was waiting at the park & ride when I arrived, and proceeded to fix me one of his world-famous bourbon & '7's - he stirs it with his index finger, and I'm convinced that's why no one else's tastes as good.  Babies love their thumbs or binkies, some folks crave their cigs, booze, or worse; I crave Tim & his bartending abilities.

I can be a world-class whiney puss; a complainer, a negative windbag.  But with this amazing, patient, dry-witted man, who would make George Clooney cower in self-doubt, I feel like Julie Andrews, yelling on a mountaintop.