Snowmaggedon

Writing a blog is hard. After the first flush of victory, the thrill of assuming an air of casual indifference as I mentioned "my blog" in a conversation, the full implications of what I've committed to has hit me like a ton of bricks.

Is this what mothers feel like after they make a meal for their family? "Great job, Mom." "Delicious, honey." "Thanks for dinner, Mom!"

"...what are we having tomorrow night?"

And then you realize that a family has to be fed every single night. And you have to accept the fact that sometimes it will not be gourmet - sometimes it will only be mac and cheese. Not even the organic kind with the bunnies, but straight-up, three degrees from plastic, Kraft mac and cheese (although, who are we kidding, who doesn't prefer that kind anyway).

Fortunately I am better at writing than I am at cooking (okay, so maybe I'm better at anything than I am at cooking). But be prepared for the occasional metaphorical mac and cheese.

Here goes round two.

Today I experienced an Atlanta snowstorm.

To be clear, "snowstorm" refers to approximately 2 inches of precipitation, and yet today I feel as if I got a glimpse of what armageddon might be like, only if something worse was happening than the end of the world.

The day started fairly normally: I listened to my alarm go off about 6 times before I got out of bed (about par for the course), opted not to turn the lights on in an attempt to convince my body that I was still asleep, decided on a dress, changed my mind because I had no brown stockings without holes, and changed it back when I found some beneath my exercise clothes (obviously haven't moved those in awhile). Sometimes I always win.

That's what I was thinking to myself when I climbed out of my car and realized that I was actually wearing purple stockings. Considering the fact that I was also wearing a green and turquoise dress with an orange sweater, I changed my mind about the morning. This was not the sometime that I always won.

Still, if I looked like an escapee from Ringling Brothers, my co-worker looked like an extra off the set of Duck Dynasty in a camouflage jacket.

"I'm trying not to wear it for too long. I borrowed it from Drew and he will be upset if it smells like me."

"Can't you just wash it?"

"Then the deer urine will come off, and he'll really be mad."

Suddenly I felt that purple tights weren't so bad.

The snow began in earnest around 12:00 pm, and all learning promptly ceased. Even an exercise that involved my students writing descriptive paragraphs about me failed to compete for long with the flurries out of the window, although it was very enlightening. Apparently I look like a mouse, as three students determined independently of one another. On a brighter note, I am also 6'2"...the extra 7 inches went a long way toward soothing my vanity...and at least one student appreciated my grotesque outfit. That is if "colors shoot out from all directions" can be taken as a compliment.

This was the last bright spot for awhile, as I headed out to take on Atlanta in the snow. Or rather, the road in front of my school. Because that is where I sat in my car for two hours.

As a Georgia tax payer I used to be very grateful that Atlanta does not invest in salt trucks. But that was before I realized that law and order cease as soon as snow sticks to the roadways.

Dear Atlanta drivers:
1) Just because they are covered in snow does not mean you can ignore the lines on the road. 2) Sidewalks are not legitimate detours. 3) Red lights still mean stop, even in a snowstorm. 4) It is never okay to drive on the wrong side of the road, even if the road is completely deserted. Also, as a side note, why would you drive on the opposite side of the road? It's not even efficient. Or is that just one of those things you want to check off the bucket list, like running up the down escalator, and you are taking advantage of the chaos to accomplish your fantasy?

In the 5 and half hours it took me to drive the 18 miles home, I was impressed by the feeling of panic in the air. I was waiting for people to start breaking windows and looting stores, and more than once I wished that I carried a baseball bat instead of a tennis racquet in my backseat. You can't hurt a fly with a tennis racquet. I mean, literally, you can't. It will just go through the holes.

Two more inches of snow and I'm convinced the pillaging would have begun.

Of course, not everyone was losing their heads. During the hour I spent at a stoplight, somewhere between leaving work and the apocalypse, the driver in the car in front of me got out of his car, walked into a nearby grocery store, and returned with two 30 racks of Bud Light. So he obviously was keeping things in perspective.

 When I finally made it home I felt like I had survived some cataclysmic event. For dinner I ate all the cookies I had been saving and for good measure made some mini peanut butter and pretzel sandwiches with chocolate chips as dessert.

If the great Atlanta snowstorm of '14 taught me anything it's that life is too short for salad.