Once upon a time I thought it would be such a great idea to move from the big, bad city of Los Angeles to the mountains. Specifically, the deep Sierras. I’d get four seasons, I reasoned. And I could get up at eight in the morning and still be the first on the slopes to ski FRESH POWDER instead of getting up at four and fighting traffic for two hours to ski on crap.
Sounded great. And for several years, it was.
And then Mother Nature stopped taking her valium and went on crack. Or maybe her husband dumped her. Or maybe she ran out of cookies. I don’t know. But we’re buried. Literally.
That’s our house. This is Alpha Man trying to dig out said house:
Here’s the famed bear box where we keep our trash. Check out the snow on that baby:
Alpha Man is going to try to rig it so the snow falls on the bear the next time he tries to get in it. I’ll do my best to catch THAT on camera. Actually, maybe I should just concentrate on my driving skills in this whole messy situation. Against Alpha Man’s advice, I tried to give Middle’s best friend a ride home yesterday morning after TWO MORE FREAKING FEET OF SNOW on top of the million feet we already had. I got around the corner before I got stuck.
Middle and Friend tried to dig me out but it wasn’t working. A cute guy in a truck stopped and offered to help and just as I opened my mouth to say YES PLEASE SAVE ME, the girls told him we were fine and he drove off. My knight in shining armor DROVE OFF. So we dig some more. You’re probably wondering why I didn’t just call Alpha Man. Well because he would have laughed, that’s why. I realize that’s not a very mature reason but it’s the truth. A little more digging time goes by and then another truck rolls up, with another guy. He asks if he can help and I say NO.
He pulls me out anyway, and he only laughed a little.
Thank you, Alpha Man. (she said only slightly begrudgingly)