(originally posted a year ago today… what a difference a year makes!)
Day 1: Looking out the windows, it has become apparent to me that I must begin to consider the possibility that I may never make it out of this house again. The streets show no signs of plowing and I’m starting to lose hope that help is even coming. Like Robinson Crusoe or Gilligan, I’m trapped in a frigid island surround by an ocean of snow. I sit down now to record my last days, in the hopes that some day, some how, my story may be known. (See Day 2 here)
It’s been only one day, but already my meager provisions are growing frighteningly low. I had to hold myself to a bagel and cream cheese for breakfast, a turkey and cheese sandwich for lunch (+sour cream and cheese flavored Ruffles), and a frozen dinner for supper. Oh, the cruel irony of that frozen dinner! It’s as if the Fates are mocking my misery! And to relegate my snacking options to grape popsicles or old spumoni? Frosty torture!
Speaking of bagels, how is it that we can put men on the moon, but we can’t fully slice a bagel all the way through and put it in a package? We do it with hamburger buns, how hard can it be? It’s just one of the things I’ll likely never learn unless I am rescued.
I’m beginning to forget what the outside world looks like. When I look out the window my mind must be playing tricks on me. Everything looks white. I seem to remember my world having at least some color. Is failing eyesight a symptom of cabin fever? Is this the so-called snow-blindness I’ve heard about? I don’t know. I mentioned Robinson Crusoe, and it’s his pattern of intellectual stimulation I’m following to avoid losing my mind and succumbing to cabin fever. Namely, writing down this account and coloring. Here’s a picture of my Spongebob:
I hope that all who read this message learn from my misfortunes: You should never attempt a Spongebob coloring book unless you have a healthy surplus of yellow crayons. They never teach you that back at the academy; it’s something you just have to learn on the gritty streets. Or in my case: the snow-encased basement in front of the 52″ TV.
I’m reminded of the occasion oh so long ago when Megan and I bought these coloring books. Gosh, that was ages ago; like in a previous life… pre-Snowpocalypse. It must have been, what, two, two and a half days? I see the coloring she did posted on my fridge, its bright colors torn from her Strawberry Shortcake coloring book. I’m beginning to doubt I’ll ever seen her or anyone else again!
Look at the inscription at the bottom of Ms. Shortcake’s picture. Is it a message of hope or a mockery of my pure-white prison?
Luckily, I still have some primitive forms of communication open to me, namely an iPhone. I checked out Facebook and read this status update: “Man, I’m glad I’m not in Egypt.” I couldn’t agree more. That would mean we’d still have nine more plagues to go after this snowy one was done with. I can’t deal with frogs, locusts AND a blizzard!
I attempted to burrow my way to freedom yesterday, twice in fact, by shoveling the driveway. Yet each time I made progress, Jack Frost just covered it right back up. I feel like I’ve built a raft and set out to sea and the hope of the mainland only to have the waves push me further back up the shore. In the wise words of Queen, I want to break free!
Day 2: As the day wears on, conditions worsen. No matter how much I play bowling on the Wii, I can’t seem to keep my poor little toes warm. Soon, I may be forced to do the unthinkable and actually put on socks.
It might as well be Alcatraz
If the calculations carved into the walls of my house-shaped prison are correct, today is Feb. 2: Groundhog Day. How appropriate then, that today should be just like the previous! The snow has stopped falling from the heavens, but there’s still little hope of it melting or of impending rescue. (See Day 1 here)
I slept reasonably well last night, all huddled up in blankets and comforters I miraculously found hiding in the hall closet/survival shelter. The only disruption came at around 2 a.m., when I heard what I assume to be the grunts and groans of the Abominable Snow Monster traipsing through my backyard. The snow kept on coming down though, so his footprints were nowhere to be seen come sun-up. Or it could have been my own snoring. We’ll never know.
My link with the outside world all-but-completely severed, I’m losing my connection to my culture and humanity. I no longer remember my real name. Here, in the midst of the post-Snowpocalyptic snowscape I now call home, I’m known simply as Thundersnow.
With snow up past my knees, I managed to scrape the driveway clean this morning, all the way to the unplowed street. The temp is 13 degrees with a wind chill of -3. Despite the temps, I still worked up quite a sweat and burned off my heaping bowl of S’mores cereal (it’s part of a balanced breakfast). This snow-removal achievement led to a brief feeling of euphoria that all was in fact not lost. My hopes were immediately dashed however, when a snowplow drove by piling an entire street’s worth of cold, muddy slush in my way. This must be how shipwreck victims feel when a search plane flies overhead, yet they remain unseen. If I haven’t been rescued by tomorrow, I’ll start spelling H-E-L-P in large rocks in my back yard.
I read an article this morning describing the wrong way to shovel your driveway. In addition to proper technique, it said you shouldn’t drink a cup of coffee or hot chocolate before hand, because it will increase your heart rate, thus increasing the risk of overexertion (apparently 1,200 die shoveling snow each year in the U.S.). Luckily, I don’t drink coffee, and simply drank a Diet Dr Pepper instead. Crisis: averted.
It’s been a full 48 hours since the mailman has come by. This is the surest sign yet that all is not well with the world. Is a life without daily piles of junk mail and credit card applications a life worth living? More importantly, I’m two postcards behind in my daily dispatches to Nashville.
Despite the isolation and boredom, my spirits are still surprisingly high. This kinda worries me. They say that in the latter stages of hypothermia, the victims stop feeling cold and instead feel a curious warmth as their body shuts down. I wonder if I’m experiencing the mental equivalent. Other symptoms of mental hypothermia (a condition I just discovered): an unnatural desire to go back to work, the passionate belief someone should totally draw an editorial cartoon depicting the President as the Obama-nable Snow Monster and wondering why the heck the new Glee episode is scheduled for Sunday after the big game, instead of 3 p.m. Wednesday when I need it. And a runny nose.
If this snow never melts and we never seen each other again, stay warm and have a Happy Groundhog Day!
Thundersnow, over and out.