Curses

My last interview of the season was this week. I am suspicious that this interview was cursed.  

Courtesy of another two inches of snow and a flight that left ages before snowplows ventured out again, I had to drive on rather slick roads. Courtesy of the woman in the red Suburu who felt the need to drive recklessly in both of our lanes at 4:30 this morning, I missed my exit. Courtesy of my abysmal sense of direction, I got hopelessly lost immediately after this. All of this added up to having to park in the airport at the exhorbiant rate of twenty American dollars a day. I like to say it like that... American dollars. As opposed to un-American dollars. They only accept patriotic cash at my airport.  

(On a side note, I just found a bay leaf in my pocket. No idea why it's there.)  

Back to my disasterous trip. I made it to the airport a little too close to the check in deadline and had a lovely discussion with the counter man about the advisability of printing my boarding pass in spite of that. I dashed to my favorite security checkpoint and slipped past the brimming Casual Traveler aisle down the empty Expert Traveler aisle. A middle age couple in Hawaiian shirts proceeded to berate me for cutting in line. I tried to explain to them that it wasn't cutting - there were two lines. Like at the grocery store - just because my line is moving faster doesn't mean I cut. It means you picked the wrong line. And that you probably have a huge carry-on, a laptop in a separate bag still zipped up, shoes that don't slip off, none of your liquids out in a bag yet, a winter coat and a fleece still on, a huge purse, and a backpack that you are planning on stuffing your purse into to qualify for the "one carry-on, one personal item" rule. You earned the slow line. I said it in a much nicer way though.


Boarded the plane on time (hooray!), and then sat on the tarmac for 45 minutes waiting on deicer. Deicer is an important part of the flying experience when one lives in The North. Except someone must have forgotten to place a refill order. They ran out of deicer. I would understand this if I were flying out of Hawaii; I imagine they have little to no need for deicer. Running out during a freak snow storm is acceptable.


However, I live in The North. We haven't seen grass in my neighborhood since November. There is a solid two feet of snow on my yard. My side road has been covered in snow and ice since December. I don't know if the pavement underneath even exists anymore. When we live in a place like this, there is no excuse for running out of deicer. We should have deicer stockpiled somewhere.


The only explanation: Cursed.

Snow devils

We had finally gotten the majority of the cabin to a reasonable temperature. The ice had started to melt off the inside windows, only the bedrooms still had ice crystals on the floor, and it was comfortable if you were wearing long sleeves, a sweater, and some sort of shoe. We were a happy foursome, our friend B., who reminds me of Bear Grylls, having snowshoed over later that night.

DH braved the cold that morning to drill a hole through the ice so we could have water to wash the dishes. We were boiling snow to get drinking and cooking water. I had no idea that so much snow produced so little water. Talk about little reward for lots of effort.

B. and DH ventured out to start the sauna. Sauna is something my island friend had introduced me to back at the beginning of medical school. I fell completely in love with the whole concept, and fully intend to install one in my home at some point. The island sauna is an exterior feed, which means someone has to go outside of the building to put more wood in the fire. Another fabulous summer plan that is more challenging in the winter.

While they were working on that C. and I started cooking. Brie, fig preserves, and french bread made an excellent snack. Paella, homemade herbed bread, apple crisp with fresh whipped cream. We tucked the ragout de chevreuil (venison stew) in the oven. It called for a full bottle of wine, but we decided we would only share a cup of our wine with the stew. We had pulled that wine two miles across the lake. It was going accompany dinner, not be in the dinner. (All of the food was amazing, for those who wonder about such things.)

It is a tradition to wear bathrobes to the sauna, no matter how cold it is. However, it was also - 39F outside. In a concession to the weather, we put full winter gear over our swimsuits, and bathrobes over the winter coats. We looked ridiculous.

The sauna was a heavenly 180F. After about 10 minutes inside, I worked up my courage. I was going to continue the tradition and make a snow angel. I took a bracing drink of the cava we had stuck in a bucket of snow, shoved my feet in my boots, and ran outside. Steam poured off my skin.

Deep breath.

Jump.

That was a stupid idea.

I went first, but I was not alone. B. had decided to join me. He, however, was going to dive in head first. Apparently when he heard me screaming unrepeatable words, he thought a second too long about it. You can't think when you are doing something that ridiculous. You just do it. He did a nice normal jump in and promptly jumped back out. Didn't even wave his arms around. Wimp.

I sprinted back to the sauna leaving a perfect snow angel and a stream of vulgar language behind.

I really thought the snow would be warmer than the air. They claim that it's an insulator. I think they are lying. My skin didn't stop burning for almost thirty minutes. I suppose that's what I deserve for attempting a 220 degree skin temperature change in under a minute.

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(Just kidding, B. ~ He is much tougher than I am in the cold department. He's one of those Polar Bear Club guys. You know, the crazy ones who jump in the iced over lakes on New Year's Day. That is a whole different level of crazy. However, there are also trained medical personnel there to rescue you from self induced hypothermia. That makes it slightly less crazy. Only slightly.)