Where is Mr. Plow When You Need Him?

We were let out of work 2 hours early yesterday and encouraged to leave earlier if needed to reach home safely because of the storm hanging over us.  I didn’t wrap up and get all of my team out the door of our downtown Washington, DC building until 3:45pm.  Things didn’t seem too bad at that point, honestly.  The sidewalks and roads had a thin layer of slush, but everyone was moving.

I drive each day, parking in a garage downtown beneath a hotel and several restaurants.  It took me 20 minutes to get out of the garage–not because of the snow, the exit gate was malfunctioning.  It was a hint from the Fates that I ignored.

Most days I travel just after HOV on Route 66 has opened up.  Route 66 is the most direct route from our cozy apartment in Fairfax into the heart of the city.  It took me an hour to get out of downtown (a distance of about 1.2 miles, but a with lot of stoplights and a lot of tourist spots).  That’s not unheard of when traffic gets nasty for an evening commute though.  I hit a pivotal point on Theodore Roosevelt Bridge where I could take 66 and risk an HOV violation (an almost certainty) or take Route 50–a guaranteed slower path, but one without a hefty fine involved.  I opted for Route 50, and got in a steadily moving line of cars that were starting to skid here or there on the thickening layers of slush.

I began my drive home with just slightly over a quarter of a tank of gas.  This would usually last me 2.5 days of driving back and forth the 26 miles to work.  My car isn’t a hybrid, but it’s pretty darned efficient even when dealing with DC stop-and-go commuting.

As is my habit, I had dialed home just before leaving the garage (once the possessed gate decided to release us from its clutches) to talk to Jer & check on The Boy.  I always use a headset or go hands-free, and he and I chat about our workdays for as long as my commute lasts.  It’s our adult conversation time, our time to vent and laugh and talk out the stresses or successes of the day.  It’s the time during the hectic week when he has my mostly undivided attention (no blackberry, email, other phone calls, or Boy to compete with), and it’s just us talking and listening to each other.

Things started to really slow down just inside Arlington, VA.  Jer began to pull up traffic reports and Google maps of the roads that lay ahead of me and injected bits of what he was seeing into our conversation.  Somewhere after Washington Blvd, I realized we weren’t moving at all anymore.  The slush was getting deeper, visibility lower.

Jer pulled up traffic cams along 50, telling me which points along the way he saw were clear and which points looked like they might be the source of the bottleneck.  We knew it was clear  (no traffic) at Carlin Springs about a mile from where I was by Jer’s estimation.  I amused him with observations about the other drivers, the worsening conditions, and the periodic updates on the number of plows, salt & sand crews I had seen working on the roads so far.

Hours on road: 3 Plows seen working: 0

An hour later my count was up to zero and I had moved .3 miles (that’s right, 0.3 miles).  The camera at Carlin Springs still showed it clear of cars.   I was starting to get cranky, thirsty, and hungry.  I regretted neglecting lunch and lamented leaving my half-full water bottle on my desk.

Another hour passed.  Visibility was horrible.  Streetlights were going out and coming back on randomly along the cross streets, casting eerie shadows on the intersections.  More cars were struggling to move after each stop, sometimes dipping into the deeper snow on the shoulder before finding purchase.

My gas light came on.

Under the Influence (or How My Life Works in Themes)

Driving along, enjoying the sunshine, and The Boy points out a billboard ad for the local gourmet grocery store chain.  The billboard sports a middle-aged chef (he had a hat!) with rather intense eyes holding out a plate of meat.

“He looks kind of scary,” The Boy commented.

“Yeah… he’s threatening us with that plate of meat, I think.”

“Maybe that’s why people become vegetarians,” The Boy says, his head nodding sagely in my rearview mirror.

“Um… actually people are vegetarian for a variety of reasons.  Some believe it is wrong to kill animals to use them as food.  It is a moral belief, an ethical choice for them,” I try to explain.

“Yeah!  But those are just the hippies,” he dismisses.

I feel That Look settle into place on my face–you know, the one that your mother gave you when you accidentally swore in front of her–and I give That Look to Jer as I come to a stop at the next light.

“I’m sorry, did he say ‘those are just hippies?’” I ask Jer.

He grins but doesn’t answer.

“I’m going to have to pay closer attention to the amount of time you two spend together,” I say and I swear I hear him chuckle as the light turns green.

“No thanks…I’m a vegetarian”

Today I took a walk around the rainy Capitol area at lunch.  The wind was brisk, the sky was gray, but the streets were still lined with vendors selling hotdogs and tourists buying quick lunches between museum visits.

I stopped and grabbed a sandwich from the deli down the street, eating half of it as I walked and people-watched, basically trying to decompress from a a rough Monday morning.

Everything was wet.  The streets were one long puddle; the trees hung low, heavy with raindrops.  I could feel my hair curling up in the humidity.

On the corner of the mall, wrapped in a leaf-covered blanket a small old woman held a sign asking for food.  I had half my sandwich in a bag and I offered it to her along with my bag of unopened chips.

She peeked in the bag, inhaling deeply, and said “Is it turkey?”

“Yes,” I said, smiling.

“No thanks,” she said, pushing it away.  ”I’m a vegetarian.”

If Jer Was an Angry School Marm

As part of his drama camp, The Boy studied different art movements–cubism, expressionism, mannerism, etc.  They used these different styles as inspiration for their sets & costumes and spent part of their days devoted to painting and sculpting (and bedazzling fabric!).

Here are two pieces my son painted:

Rock-n-Roll Rooster

Angry Nerd

The second is my favorite.  I keep telling Jer that it looks nothing like him, but he disagrees.

Sure, he has dark hair parted on that side… and thick eyebrows like that… and a largish nose… and black glasses–but he never wears ruffled turtlenecks or red lipstick!

I framed them today and hung them in the den.  Angry Nerd makes me giggle every time I pass it.

Sportsmanship

The Boy spends his summers going to a wide variety of camps and activities.  This year was no exception.  He spent the majority of weeks at Karate camp–taking lessons, visiting museums, swimming twice a week, hitting the beach, and making new friends.

Before that he went to Lacrosse camp, confirming his love for the sport and discovering a previously hidden well of competitiveness beneath his artsy/goofy outer coating.

Each summer he has also tried something new and different–something he typically shies away from.  I enforce this “rule” to keep him from settling into ruts and to try and keep him well-rounded.  This year he tried two new things: Tennis and Acting.

The first tennis lesson was eye-opening… for me.  He was the only boy in the group, and one of two with any coordination whatsoever.  It was painful watching the rest of the students trip, hit each other with the ball, accidentally throw their racquets, and generally miss every ball that came their way.  My boy wasn’t graceful or natural at the sport, but he could swing and hit the ball 90% of the time, which is why he was paired with the only other semi-good player in the class when the class broke up into separate matches so they could practice the basics they had learned.

The girl he was paired with was an adorable little blonde about the same age.  She was a picture-perfect tennis star from head to toe–complete with her bobbing blonde ponytail and her little pink tennis skirt.  She had a wicked forehand, and a lot of speed.

My boy took position across the net from her, proceeded to twirl his racquet loosely in his hand like the veteran pros I’ve watched on TV, his weight shifting back & forth in his ready stance.  He stared her down over the net, waiting for her to serve.

“You’re gonna DIE!” my dear, sweet, never-wants-conflict little boy hollered at her.  Thank you, lacrosse!

My mouth fell open and I slowly turned toward the little tennis-angel’s mom, cringing inside and preparing to apologize.

Before I could say anything, her mother laughed with genuine amusement and said “Boys!  You gotta love ‘em!”

He and I had a nice talk on the way home about good sportsmanship & how to trash-talk without threatening bodily harm.