Winter Mountain Driving

How to drive in snow:

• Put Jeep Liberty (how do you like that product placement?) into four wheel drive.
• Drive

How to drive through mountains in snow:

• Panic!
  

Not really, but I was a little nervous on how I was going to do this. Growing up in Michigan driving through snow and ice is inevitable. I am one of the .00009 percent of people in Seattle that does not panic when snow is mentioned.

I dominate these freeways when the snow begins to fall. But there is a difference between a freeway, and a mountain pass.

On Tuesday and Wednesday of this week, we were hit with a snow storm. Up to two feet in some areas, up to a quarter of an inch in others. The mountains? Covered in snow, the best snow storm the mountains have seen since December.

Of course, if the mountains receive snow, you must get there immediately and ski in it. This is where my mom and family friend Mrs. Ferriss would be so proud. On Wednesday night as the snow is coming down, I made the decision I was going to go ski. I knew the roads would be bad, but I had to at least try.

This at least try mentality makes Chris a little nervous. After all, this is the thought process that had us stuck in the middle of Lake Washington at two in the morning, the last time we were hit with massive snow.

The roads were fine on Thursday morning, fine for those that a) knew how to drive and b) weren't going crazy.

Up to the mountain I went.

Then, about 20 miles away the snow got a tad deeper, the roads got a tad less clear, and the fun began.

Don't think there was 1,000,000 inches of snow on the ground, it wasn't that bad. But there was probably about two. Cars in front of me had created little two-treks and I followed those. I took my time, and went about the speed limit, maybe a little less. Within a hundred yards of the ski slopes, you could tell who had driven these roads a thousand times with snow on them.

Off they shot, into the distance. Good job, guys.

On the way home, the roads were still snow filled (it had been snowing all day) and I found the amazingness of lower gear breaking.

It was amazing! The car stayed in my control, I didn't have to go crazy on the brake. In fact, I rarely had to touch the brake. Down the mountain I went, and into work.

Yeah, you know you're an adult when you give up valuable ski time for work.

The Destructive Powers of a Tennis Ball

You can add repairing ceiling tiles, repairing and replacing hangers, and fixing wall dents to my repertoire.

Four broken tiles, seven broken hangers, a near shattering of a glass door, window and mirror and a near decapitation of two mannequins, I've come to the conclusion that tennis balls are very dangerous.

Sure, they're cute, and a fun greenish-yellow color, they bounce and can end hours and hours of boredom. Tennis balls are fantastic! they are also the go-to entertainment when your coloring book is complete.

It's a little slow at work. So, to entertain ourselves, after, and only after all work is done, we colored. Crayons were on the counter, pages were ripped from the book, and from the printer.

Here's the thing about crayons, they take over the world, and they break. They also give the impression that you don't do anything at work. This was my boss's concern.

"Hide the crayons like you would alcohol or weed. Or whatever your drug preference," he told us.

Consider them hidden. I [now] believe coloring is now the gateway to harder activities.

What we do not have to hide, and the benefit of running a tennis shop, are the tennis balls. A game of tennis anyone?

Yes please!

The rules of indoor tennis:

Grab a demo racquet and a tennis ball.

Stand on opposite sides of store.

Hit tennis ball as hard and as fast as you can.

Try to return volley.

Okay, okay, I know nothing good can come of this. This is how ceiling tiles are dented, broken, and hit out of place. This is how hangers are broken, and clothes are filled with dust. How windows are hit, and how a coworker almost lost an eye.

For them being so cute, tennis balls are out of control.

When you're tired of using a tennis racquet to launch it's counterpart across a closed in area, feel free to use a hockey stick. Play it Again Sports in Lynnwood is hockey capital. It's weird not being able to find hockey sticks everywhere and anywhere. It's like they've been banished. I located a street hockey specific stick for $9.99.

A hockey stick makes it easier to hit targets in the store. It's also easier to nail a mannequin in the head, cause her helmet and goggles to fly off, and drop her skis. Really, who knew these tennis balls were so malicious?

Don't worry, the ceiling tiles and everything else was picked up and replaced. The hockey stick has been delegated to outdoors only.

Lock and Key

Every experience is supposed to be a learning experience. What did we learn? Mo cannot use a lock and key.

It's sad, really, that a 24-year-old is unable to work a lock. It's not entirely my fault. My boss is also partly to blame. He, after all, gave me the responsibility of closing the store.

It's not a difficult job closing. Kick everyone out by eight, set the alarm, lock the door. Except, on the night that involved silly people being extremely rude and demanding, the door decided to also be rude and demanding.

The key could not turn more than 7/8s in the lock. Frustrating, because, technically the door is locked, I just couldn't get my key. With my key still on the key chain, I could also not get my car keys or house keys. I also can't leave the key to the store chilling in the door. I might as well put a giant sign outside that says: FREE SKIS!

Okay, I can get this to work. First, move inside where it is nice and warm. Second, grab a screw driver. I lift up the second door, with the mechanism, where the deadbolt enters. Still cannot turn my key more than 3/4s.

Okay, okay, okay, don't panic. I look at the clock, 8:30. Right, okay, it's only taken me a half hour to try to lock the stupid door.

I need to call and tell someone I can't lock the door. The main store? No what are they going to do? My boss!

"Hello?" My boss answers the phone suspiciously. I don't blame him. It's his day off and the unspoken agreement is do not call Boss unless the store exploded.
"I can't lock the door," I all but scream into the phone out of frustration.
"Okay....Do you see the left door with the white mechanism?" Boss asks slowly and methodically.
"Yes" I manage to say without exploding.
"Push that mechanism up, now try to turn the lock."
"I did and nothing" I'm trying really hard not to throw my phone at the lock.
"Take the screwdriver and lift the second door up, so it's even with the left door," he suggests.
I am now beginning to hate screwdrivers.
"Still not working," snottiness has officially taken over.
"Do you want me to come down there?"
"No, because by the time you get here I'll have it figured out."
"Okay, well call me back if you get it," Boss tells me.
"Do you think pliers would work?"
"Maybe, but don't break the key," he reminds me before hanging up.
Yeah, only a moron would break a key in a lock.

Hello, and I'm a moron. I look at the clock 9:00. I should probably tell Chris I'm going to be really late.
"Hello?" Chris answers
"Sh#t!" I scream in answer. Okay, probably not the best way to say hello to your husband, I totally agree. But, I just broke the key in the lock. Pliers and hammers and fists do little in reinforcing a key's strength.
"What happened?!" Chris asks panicked.
"I just broke the bleep key in the bleep lock! How do I get it out?"
"You could use gum?" Chris offers, "or a magnet."
"I really don't want to put gum in the lock," I mutter. Finally! Mo has a good idea tonight.
"Hold on, let me see if Bing has any ideas."
Bing did not have any ideas.
"My boss just showed up, I'll see you in about an hour," I tell Chris.
Boss gets out of the car armed with power tools. He gets out calmly.
"Hey, so remember what you told me not to do?" I ask giving him a smile.
"No, what?"
"Not to break the key? I kinda did."
He looks to the floor of the store where screwdrivers, pliers, a hammer, and scissors all laid.
"Well, that's not our concern for tonight. He bends down, and pulls out a small rock out of the floor opening for the lock. He gets out his key and turns the lock fully.

Stare. No expression, just a "Shining" stare.
"It's fine, you and the guys can get it out tomorrow."
"Thanks, Boss" I tell him as I climb into my car.

It only took five people two days to get the key out.

Stupid Vacuum

I know how to use a vacuum cleaner. Seriously, I do. I've had to vacuum the house/upstairs/downstairs/whatever I was able to negotiate down to, since I was young.

However, the vacuum that took residence in the closet had a bag. When it got full it was very easy to change. "Mom, the bag is full!" Mom would come running, actually walking, muttering about worthless children who could not change a vacuum bag, and how will I ever survive when I need to change my own vacuum bag? She may or may not have muttered about moving to a tropical island where there were no vacuums or children.

Mom would change the vacuum bag, and I would go on my merry way.

Now, as an adult, I would like to say, thank you dirt devil for making bag less vacuums. However, the bag less vacuums are kinda gross. It's not the cute little clear bin that makes it easy to grab Legos, Hotweels, or the pet gerbil.

It's a gross bin, full of crud I really didn't want to know was in the carpet.

I call for false advertising, our vacuum dirt container thing doesn't dump it's crud nice and easy into the garbage. No, it hangs onto the crud, and doesn't let go. No matter how many times you beat the container on the garbage bin.

Once the crud has been removed, you now have to deal with the filter. Damn that filter. Tired of having to revacuum up the crud that was once in the vacuum, I decided to beat the filter against the dumpsters outside.

One, two, three for good luck. Apparently, the leprechauns don't work for the Scottish, as the filter went flying out of my hand, landing with thud.

Okay, not bad. It just landed on the wet ground. No, bad. Very, very bad. The filter is lying in a five feet deep dumpster. An empty dumpster, with wet gunk covering the bottom. Okay, I need to get this out. Chris is not going to be happy to see a receipt for a vacuum filter, when we have a filter.

Sorry, I'm not going to jump in there and get it. Softball bat!

Luckily, my car also acts as a sporting goods store. Grab a softball bat, and begin trying to scoop out the filter.

Fail.

I need something smaller and more narrow.

Ski pole!

Now, using ski poles are a little more difficult that chopsticks. It's kind of like using chop sticks to eat rice, only more difficult. Poke into the small opening that sits over the vacuum opening and scoop up. Only to watch the filter fly to the other side of the dumpster.

I am still not jumping in there. And I am not going to buy a new one. Chris doesn't need to know what happened today.

Albeit, by writing about this, he will definitely know what happened.

Poke, prod, roll. Walk it up, ever so slowly. Reeeeaaaaaaaccccccchhhhhh. Got it!
Reassemble vacuum.
Good as new.
Stupid vacuum....

Washing Machine Meet Vacuum

Option One: drive to the Snoqualmie River, throw my clothes off the waterfall, and then beat my clothes on rocks, all to wash them.

Option Two: Throw clothes in bucket, stir with stick, send clothes through a washing beetle, beat them with a bat, and hang them up to dry.

Option Three: The glorious hunk of metal, that drowns, suds, and spins clothes at puking speeds.

Option three please! Except....

The machine is only good at one thing, washing clothes. It does not provide electricity like waterfalls. It does not provide anything useful, other than good hygiene.

And it's that good hygiene that has me vacuuming out the washer.

Okay, I know I'm not that crazy. Nor, do I have any family members that vacuumed their front lawns, scrubbed lawn gnomes, or took cleaning to out of control proportions. So where did my need of vacuuming cleaning appliances come from?

"Oh, no!" I cried when I opened the washing machine lid. My clothes were covered in soft brown schmutz, as if something exploded in the washer.

"What'cha do?" Chris asks concerned.
"Nothing. It's fine. I just hope you didn't plan on doing laundry the next two days. I'll clean it up," I tell Chris.

"What happened?"
"I don't know, there's something all over my clothes!"
I remove jeans, covered in brown lint, funny, I don't anything brown. A few more items are grabbed, and there is the explosion culprit.

Above our washing machine is a shelf stacked and packed with boxes, stuff we don't want in the living room, and a fly swatter. There, in the washer, lies a white paper tin like wrapper. Christmas lights. I look up at the shelf, one, two, th...

No three, just two empty Christmas light boxes.

"I just washed a Christmas light box!"
"Bummer," was Chris's response. Bummer indeed. How the hell do I get wet cardboard off my clothes?

The lint trap!

All clothes into the dryer!

Now, what to do about the cardboard plastered on the side of the washer? Dry stuff flakes off the sides right?

The next morning, armed with the vacuum, complete with newly rescued filter, I try to get the fuzz chunks out of there. The hose only works when it is not bent. Meaning, one side of the washer still had fuzz on it. If I don't get this out, Chris is going to be a sad panda.

Picking up the vacuum, and lying it horizontal between the dryer and washer and stretched the hose into the bottom of the washer. Oh, boy. Please don't fall. Please don't fall.

Now, to the dryer. The lint trap is overflowing with lint, and cardboard. Lint oozed out of the trap, the opening, and everywhere lint could possibly be. Shake of the shirt, out comes cardboard. Shake of the sock, more cardboard.

Finally, all clothes are out of the dryer. There, at the bottom of the dryer was bits of cardboard. You would think, it was rabbits creating this many cardboard pieces.

All I could think of is how Donna Reed, June Cleaver, and Martha Stewart are very disapointed in the new age of housework. Oh, look, more cardboard pieces.

Snow?

At 4 p.m. this afternoon, Seattle was to be hit by a massive snowstorm. Roads were closed, bus lines were altered, after school activities canceled, schools closed early. It's now 7 p.m. not a snowflake has fallen, not even a raindrop.

For those of you who did not survive the "Great Snow Storm of November" may not understand. It was so bad the Monday before Thanksgiving, buses and cars skidded, and slid their way through the city. The bridges connecting Seattle and the east side had cars sitting on them for five hours. It was horrible! Horrible! People were stranded a mile from their homes, grocery stores were being plundered. It was chaos. Absolute chaos! We had so much snow were being compared to the Russian Tundra.

It was horrible. You could see the curb, the sidewalk, and it took less than 30 seconds to wipe snow off the car.

It was a snowstorm, only people from the south could understand.

So, this morning, the word "snow" created a panic like no other. Chris's coworker received a call from the dentist, asking to change the appointment.

"It was canceled because of weather. Weather," he told Chris in astonishment.

Apparently, Seattlites, are a very paranoid bunch when it comes to the white stuff. In the meantime, we're settling onto the couch, and watching and waiting for the mysterious snowstorm.

The Power of Bacon

Thanksgiving is a time to give thanks for what you have. It's also a time for the nation to watch the Detroit Lions do, what most Detroiters/Michiganders do not, lose. This Thanksgiving was Chris and my first Thanksgiving in Seattle. Last year, Chris went home to Detroit. I was in Utah, explaining to Aussies how to play guitar hero. I wanted this Thanksgiving to be special. My sister, Meghan, who was offered a job at Microsoft, at the end of October, was flying out here for the weekend.

Ryan, a friend of Chris's from school, and internship, had offered/was ordered to host Thanksgiving. There would be six of us, all from Michigan coming together around the table. A week before dinner, Ryan sent out an email, complete with chart, on what we were to bring. I jumped on aur d'ouvers and mashed potatoes with cheese and bacon.

I thought mashed potatoes would be pretty easy. Open box, add milk and water, stir and serve. What I was not expecting was the reaction boys have when bacon is mentioned. Not having any brothers, I did not know bacon was like chocolate for guys. It was requested not only in the mashed potatoes, but also in the pigs in a blanket. The argument that was used with this request was "bacon makes everything better." Which, then prompted a proof to be sent. They are Microsoft engineers, this is what they do:

Let F be the set of all foodstuffs

Let B(X) be a function of F -> F which maps X to the Bacon-Wrapped version of X.

Let D(X) be a function of F -> (0..10) which maps X to a score from 1 to 10 of how delicious X is.

∀X ∈ F Is D(B(X)) > D(X)?

Yeah, umm, I would have been okay with leaving it at "bacon makes everything better."

On thanksgiving morning I got up, and promptly, crashed onto the futon, where my drugged sister was passed out from taking NyQuil five hours before. Note: NyQuil needs 8 hours of sleep to help you.

"Okay, I need to make pigs in a blanket, smokies, and mashed potatoes by 12:45, so we can be at Ryan's by 1!" I was energetic, I was pumped. I could do this! Chris and Meghan looked at me like I was nuts.

"Chris how do I cook bacon?"
"I dunno," was the response I got from him, a diehard Lions fan, who was setting up one of our 3 televisions for the game. Chris, and his computer along with the TV have a complex relationship. The house could blow up, my hair could catch fire, and Chris will still be zoned into one of the screens. Meghan, also has the ability to zone into the screen. I'm pretty sure the two of them could sit right through a 3 hour infomercial on knives and not move.

"Chris!"
"Chrriiiiisssss"
"Topher!"
No response other than "Augh! C'mon Lions!"
Meghan was zoned in right next to him, with laptop on lap.

I know understand why my mother, grandmother, or host, all look like they came out of a Steven King or Alfred Hitchcock movie. It's stressful! Meghan, the cook, mumbled something, from the futon. I listened, put the bacon in the pan and began to fry. I burnt my wrist the night before in a work accident, and kept jumping out of the way of the bacon trying not to end up in the burn unit at the local hospital. I must have looked like a dodge ball champ.

Finally, and I'm still not sure how, I think they were bribed with bacon, got up and wrapped the pigs in a blanket with bacon. We were out the door at 1, and at Ryan's by 1:30. I think next year I'll just order a pizza.