White Shit

I take pride in being a New Englander. New Englanders have been here the longest out of all the immigrants to this country. We had to work REAL hard to make it in America, and we've got the class and culture to show for it. We have old buildings, the oldest institute of higher learning in the country and a great sense of regional pride. You know what else we have?
Snow. A lot of fucking snow.
New Englanders pride themselves on their hardy constitutions. "Oh, it's just some snow," they say, a mountian of gray-black snow behind them. When stuck at Logan, they wave at the television cameras as if they're waiting for a rollercoaster at Disney World, not waiting an hour and a half to be told the flight is full and they won't be leaving this city of culture for at least two days. We suck it up, soldier through and try not to complain.
This makes me a very bad New Englander, because I have done little but piss and moan about the snow and cold. No television cameras have been on me, so I haven't had to play brave. Sunday found me holed up in my apartment, watching eight hours of "I Love the '90s Part Deux" in a catatonic-like state. I got up only to fetch the ice cream or popcorn and occasionally look out the window at the piles of snow. My landlord and his family was outside for at least six hours trying to remove the snow from the sidewalk and driveway.
Everything is more difficult when there's 2 feet of snow outside. All the little shortcuts I take (walk across the middle of St. James Ave to get to the coffee shop across the street instead of walking to the crosswalk, jog across Beacon St to get to the T before the next line of cars comes barreling down the hill) are covered in a five foot drift of snow, so I have to use the shoveled paths which takes longer. The C line runs on a "whenever we goddamn feel like it" schedule instead of the usual "we're on our damn way, hold on a minute" schedule. The hems of my pants look like litmus paper with salt and dirt wicked up the backs of my legs. I can't wear cute clothes because they'll be covered in mud and slush before I make it to the end of the street. I have a perpetual case of hat head and chapped lips. I can't bring myself to sit in front of the television again after the marathon session I spent in front of it on Sunday. I come home from work, remove my snow-caked boots at the front door, step in a puddle that the boots made as I opened and closed the door, curse, go into my room and remove the soaking wet pants, get salt on the floor, curse, put on my pajama bottoms and slippers and heave a big sigh because I'm at home at 5:30 without a damn thing to keep me busy until I go to sleep.
Todd Gross, the channel 7 weatherman, is a dead man if I ever see him. If he's smart, he'll forecast a sunny and warm day the next time a snowstorm is about to dump an additional 6" on top of the 28" already on the ground, book a flight to Mexico and never look back. If I see his bad bleach job hair on my TV screen again, followed by the words "inches of snow" anytime soon, I may just lose it. Chikage can stay, however, because she is cool and the boys love her.