Up in Arms

Winter's here with a vengeance, so sudden; we had nearly 40 degree weather two weeks ago and now this, dry crackling powder four inches at a time, bitter nights, apocalyptic skies, ruthless winds. The Snow Pile across the street is back and so are the Loud, Annoying, Trespassing Kids that Play on the Snow Pile, but now they're down to two (as far as I can tell from the window -- they sound like ten) since Gina bought her grandmother's house and moved her boys downtown. Two, three, ten, doesn't matter. It will be War as usual.

I'm itching for combat, apparently, but the world just keeps provoking me. This morning, or what I thought was morning, I woke up to the grinding, clanking snarl of the truck plowing the church parking lot across the street. Wondering how much time I had left before the alarm went off, I hit the snooze button (which lights up the hands) and read 3:15 a.m. What? I checked the mantel clock on the bookcase next to the bed. 3:15 a.m. OH NO YOU ARE NOT. I should have called the cops, because we have a noise ordinance, but I wasn't thinking (I had only been asleep for three hours). I should have tossed on a hair net and my camel coat and the big North Face pac boots and gone running over in my nightgown screaming and waving a broom. That would have scared him off, maybe for good.

This is a residential area. Why doesn't anybody think? He probably has other lots in town to plow and wanted to get this one out of the way. Maybe he wanted to get it done before people started showing up for church (there was one vehicle there at 7:00 a.m. when I left for work four hours later). Why is the world out to get me? I just hate noise. I just want sleep. If I wear earplugs I won't hear my alarm, and they're uncomfortable anyway. I shouldn't have to do that.

I have no problem with the nice, quiet man upstairs (who has been just lovely, by the way, since he got back from four months working in Louisiana around Thanksgiving, just when Kathy was trying to rent his still-furnished apartment because she'd forgotten his name and number and hadn't seen his November rent check yet -- what, he's still living there? Could you run up and have him call me, please?) squeaking around directly above me. "I always feel like I should tip-toe," he said. "It's so creaky." I told him it was fine. (I run the water when I use the restroom if I think he's in bed, because I'm afraid he'll hear me.) Just knowing he's thinking about it completely defuses me. THINK, people.

I can't wait for the plow guy to show up at an ungodly hour again. CAN'T WAIT. A couple of weeks ago someone woke me up shoveling at 1:00 a.m., but I couldn't see where they were. They could have been at the church, or they could have been up the street. This part of town echoes. We're on a hillside, and the house is surrounded by tall brick buildings like the church and new two-story elementary school. I can't wait for the Snow Pile Kids to start shrieking at 11:00 at night again, or wake me up before 8:00 on a Saturday morning. I have a chicken carcass waiting in the fridge and a litter box that needs sifting. I feel like John Travolta's archangel in Michael (which is a great alternative Christmas movie and one of Dad's favorites): "BATTLE!"

More and more of what I write on my Facebook wall is in all caps. I have to get mean; I have got to get tough if I'm going to get through this winter. Or Christmas, even. Oh, the holidays. The gloves are off.