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Goddammit, I really hate this.

It snowed last night. A lot. This isn't a problem. I like snow. It reminds me of Illinois. I've been saying it reminds me of home, but I get a funny little feeling every time I say that, since that isn't home anymore. This is home. Our home, our house. Still, that ranch house back Illinois is probably going to be "home" in many ways for quite a while to come.

Anyway, it snowed about four inches last night. The winds are fairly strong too, steadily about 15 mph, with gusts up to 30 or so. Anyway, the snow is sort of dry. It's not really all that powdery, but you couldn't really make a real snowball with it, since it doesn't pack very well.

We got up, did the morning hygienic rituals, and went to leave. Started the cars, got the defrosters running, scraped off the snow and the little proto-ice that was underneath, and I went to go. I backed out of the driveway just fine, put it into drive and... whee... watch the wheels spin, the speedometer needle jerk around, and the car itself go precisely nowhere.

I put it into reverse, backed up a little bit (did that just fine), and tried to go forward again. Nothing. I try to rock it to get the wheels out of the little indentations they've dug in the snow. That doesn't really work. Liz has come to the end of the driveway and is standing and watching. I feel like the idiot on display.

After doing this same routine (back up, try going forward slowly, try rocking out of the indentations, repeat), I decide to try to pull back into the driveway. Liz is still standing at the end of it, staring at me. She may be saying something, but she's got a scarf over the lower half of her face, and over the van's engine and the windshield wipers (did I mention it's still snowing?), I can't hear her. I decide to try to get the van next to the driveway, so I don't run over my spectating wife.

Turning the van in the direction is actually fairly easy -- from the center of the cul de sac, the house is downhill. So the van turns in that direction, goes about 5', and then obstinately decides that's as far as it wants to go. Rather than backing up and stranding myself completely in the middle of the cul de sac, I decide to fuck it, and just leave it where it is, mostly out of the way.

I open the door feeling like a complete idiot, unable to pull his fucking car out of the driveway, and Liz pipes up, "Your wheels are spinning." I know she meant well, but at the time, it's like telling a drowning man, "You're getting water in your mouth."

"No fucking kidding!?" I stopped there. I wanted to ask if she thought it was because of the snow on the ground, but held on to my temper. Kind of. Not really.

"Do you want me to go call for you?" she asked.

"Who?" I asked angrily. Just please don't say what I think you're going to say. Please please please please...

"Work, to tell them you won't be coming in."

I blew up. "I think I can fucking call my fucking job by myself to say that I won't be able to get my fucking car out of my fucking neighborhood, thank you!" Just when I was feeling stupid enough, why imply that I can't call work myself?

I stamp inside. Throw my bag down, Tear my damn jacket off, and I'm starting to kick my shoes off when Liz comes in, looks at me, and walks into the living room, her duck shoes leaving water footprints on the carpet behind her.

Saints above, fucking preserve us.

I stomp into the kitchen to call work. I dial the main number. The last time I tried this, it took me for fucking ever to leave a message. Let's try not to be this dumb again. Dial the number. Ring... ring... ring... ring... "Hello, this is [company]. If you know the number of the party you're dialing, you can dial it now. To leave a message, press star. To use the directory, press pound. To speak to an operator, please press zero.". Okay, last time I must have tried to just leave a message, so this time... I'll try to "speak to an operator". Ponk.

Ring... ring.... ring. Shit. I'm just going to get dumped to the same fucking menu I bet. Hang up. Dial the main number again. (Yes, I realize now this means I was just going to sit through the same message again. Sue me, I was so angry I'm surprised I dialed the number correctly twice in a row).

This time, I press star. Leave a message! It seems like the obvious choice! "Please dial the mailbox number of the party you want to reach". I try dialing zero. Nothing. I wait. It repeats the message. I hang up the damn phone, and spin around to see Liz, who's apparently been watching me be unable to leave a message now, in addition to watching me be unable to drive a car out of our cul de sac.

"Here! You have the fucking phone!" And I stomped upstairs.

I started the Mac up and worked on breathing calmly. Calm, calm, calm. Everything is fine. You are fine. You just feel like everyone in the cul de sac was watching because Liz was. Everyone doesn't think you're an idiot. Everyone else is probably still asleep, and didn't get out of bed once they heard the list of school closings. All is well.

Liz comes upstairs and sits down at her computer, which I booted up for her. Little mini-peace offering of sorts. I'm sorry for being so angry and the like. She checks her email, I play Snood. I think I even apologize.

And then she looks out the window.

"Oooh! Look, the neighbor is trying to get out, and she's stuck!" And Liz proceeds to watch for the next twenty minutes while the neighbor doesn't go anywhere.

Great. I knew it. Everyone thinks I'm an idiot. An idiot who has to take time off work because he can't get out of his driveway. Wonderful.