Enough

I often tell you how I miss a washer and dryer.

 

I also sometimes miss a bathtub. 

 

As snow finally arrived in Wyoming — you know I LOVE snow and winter — incentive to make life changes, certainly, decisively, has also arrived. 

 

Snow piled as if mini-Tetons, trucks perilously sliding uphill, downhill, lumbering any and every which way around neighborhood bumps and hurdles, vintage front wheel drive Honda's aren't inclined to surf two, three, four feet, and even higher snow drifts. 

 

It seems our little neighborhood is the proverbial red headed stepchild. 

 

I've never missed work due to snow, in six years, going on seven years. Our roads are well-tended most days in Wyoming.

 

Our personal parking space is not well-tended at all. 

 

Christmas day, snow had been flying for a couple days. I've dug myself out before, and wasn't overly concerned this Christmas. I knew when I cranked my car for a quick warmup, exiting the 'hood would be dicey at best. 

 

Indeed, an understatement. 

 

I tried everything. With at least a hundred yards of deep, dazzling snow, I wasn't going to make it out of our drive. 

 

Regrettably I contact the boss, via text. I remind you once again, I've NEVER missed work due to snow. 

 

I cry. 

 

My colleague messages me, thankful I'm working Christmas, as she has planned for a delightful, spiritual experience.

 

(Most experiences in the mountains are spiritual, to me.)

 

I absolutely detested messaging her to say, "Hey, they've not plowed my place."

 

I had absolutely no choice. 

 

In the meantime, Christmas Day for heaven's sake, my boss was ready to cover for me, once my colleague left work. 

 

I'm sick, almost physically. 

 

I cry more as if tears will do one darn thing to change circumstances. 

 

I hear a snowblower, walk downstairs in my pajama bottoms, as my dress pants are wet up to my knees, and lo and behold, the boss is clearing our drive and pathways. I'm sick, just sick, he is missing Christmas Day with his family. 

 

He cleared tons of snow, with a smile on his face, his cute little pup assisting happily. 

 

I'm good to go, or so I think. "Debbie don't take the north exit," he tells me, the reason painfully obvious. Snow is piled at least as tall as me. "Take the south exit."

 

Done, will do.

 

And thank you. Thank you SO much.

 

Upstairs I look at my puffy, ugly-cry self. To heck with it, who cares? This is a good time to mask, hiding most of the ugly. Fetching my dress pants, which are drying over a nice box fan, I dress and head to work. 

 

My car won't budge. Will. Not. Budge. We are now down to ice. I know not to spin, still not going anywhere. 

 

Guy downstairs pulled out the snowblower. I ask for a push. He was quite reluctant, as when he had the male parts to suggest I need snow tires in order to get out of high drifts, I may have unloaded, unlady like. Yes I did. I proceed to tell him snow has been MUCH deeper, and I had the same all-weather tires. It's not the AMOUNT of snow, it's the fact it hasn't been cleared, in days. DAYS. 

 

This is his first year here. I don't need him telling me this is a "bad winter". He has no clue. 

 

Bovine scat. 

 

BOVINE SCAT. 

 

I hand palm, after our heated discussion concerning both of us usually being nice under normal circumstances, even under less than ideal circumstances. These are not normal circumstances, not even close. And I didn't get to enjoy a keg and tequila last night, able to sleep off Christmas Eve festivities this morning. 

 

Forget it. Just forget it. I walk away.

 

He and friends return eventually, offering help. I gladly accept. 

 

You see, if I don't work, I don't get paid. This is the world in which many across the nation face these days. 

 

I message property management, who also happen to be minority owners. "My boss dug me out today." I ask for a plow. I'm assured plows will be deployed.

 

Arriving home late and dark, I pull in our drive, barely, thinking plows have cleaned the mess. I remind you it's dark, really dark. I'm stuck as if in cement before I realize what's happened. 

 

This time I'm too tired to cry, such a waste of time and energy, at any rate. 

 

Turning flashers on, I walk down to the house, most reluctantly knocking on the guys' door, guys singing, drinking, enjoying their holiday. 

 

They know without me saying a word. All four follow me to my brightly blinking hot mess of a car. Prior to them pushing me, we discuss strategies. Parking on the feeder by the highway is the only reasonable option. Done.

 

Next morning I get up even earlier, head out the south entrance, I'm forced to stop for oncoming traffic, BAM, I'm stuck again. Deep, deep stuff. I walk back down to the house, waking hungover, deeply sleeping gentlemen. They are gracious. Once again neighbor has the testicles to tell me I need snow tires. I don't say a word, not one word. Eventually they are able to get me over the deep snow, suggesting I park down and across the street at The Market when I come home tonight. 

 

Bovine scat, just Bovine scat. But I will park at The Market before I get stuck again, at the place I pay rent, with understanding snow removal is part of rent. 

 

I arrive home late, dark, exhausted. Thank you GOD. While not plowed very well, there has been some crap shifting. I park to where I will be able to get out without much difficulty the following morning. 

 

Next morning I Nascar up the hill, out of the drive. Yes. Progress. 

 

Arriving home, late, dark, and unquestionably exhausted, slip and slide, deep tire marks are everywhere. I park right in the middle of the drive, not willing to get stuck, yet again. 

 

I'd even messaged property management earlier in the day, offering thanks for the previous day's clearing, and requesting another pass by plows. Additionally I ask if perhaps they could push snow down to the opposite end of the property, allowing for better drainage come spring, rather than swamp like conditions, third world conditions, as experienced by a dear friend who's experienced several third world conditions.

 

(I wan't married to an engineer four months shy of thirty years and not learned something, drainage being one of many valuable lessons.)

 

No, no there were no plows yesterday. I'm still parked in the middle of the parking lot. I have an end of year eye doctor appointment tomorrow; I return to work the next day. Not to mention the laundry place eagerly awaits my presence.

 

This is not working for me. 

 

Send me a truck with a plow and I'll clean the place up myself, but please don't leave us floundering out here. 

 

I'm out major money, missing work, paying tequila bucks to the guys, not to mention the boss should be compensated holiday pay for digging out his employee. 

 

I'd purchase studded tires, alas, there's no place to store all-weather tires through winter. Which is neither here nor there. Four wheel drives were stuck, Jeeps were stuck. I spoke with a neighbor today who told me of many stuck throughout the day. If snow is high and deep one is screwed. Screwed. This isn't Texas during snow storms. Wyoming, this is Wyoming and management should be prepared for inevitabilities. 

 

This, however, is Jackson, the richest resort town in the nation. While loving the beauty this area offers, low and no tax status, expecting service related industries to survive and thrive while nickel and diming working class at every turn, many uber wealthy aren't inclined to take care of working class. Some, not many. "Live across the pass in Idaho," they say. Firefighters, EMS, Paramedics, LEO's, paid less than livable wages, many do live across the pass. The one time, ONE TIME uber wealthy need medical services, I guaran-darn-tee healthcare workers will be worth any amount of money. Retail and other industries earn their keep too, for the most part, contributing in a mighty way to our economy. 

 

I'm asking for a snowplow.

 

That's all. 

 

Plow our private drive so each of us can get to work in a timely manner.