It's Tuesday morning in Chicago, late morning for me, even late for folks whose sleep cycles are more in sync with the sun. My right eye is staring out the window while my left eye reads (I'm double jointed). "When the Chicago area awakes Tuesday," my up to the minute on line news tells me, "it will find itself in the midst of a [monster] storm." In the midst, it says. My right eye blinks. Well I guess, to be more accurate, it winks. Other than cars pulling in and out in front of Starbucks, nothing is moving. Nothing is falling from the sky. Once again, the storm of the century -- and, given how many of those we've had already this is going to be a really long and dreary century -- appears to be a tempest in a teapot. Or maybe the Chicago area just sleeps until noon.
Nevertheless, schools everywhere are closed. My daughter was as focused last night as I've ever seen her, watching her untouched mountain of homework with one eye (she's double jointed too) while her other eye and ear awaited news of the closing. Her powers of concentration have never been more impressive. It gives me great hope.
We watched the nightly news together. Quality time together as a last resort; it gets boring watching a pile of homework not getting done, even more boring watching someone watch a pile of homework not getting done. Apparently, there was nothing going on in the world last night, nothing worth discussing anyway, other than the storm about to bear down on the Midwest. Thank goodness a storm of the century spawns a lot of side stories. Like the fact that everyone in the Chicago area was rushing to the grocery store and then to the hardware store to stock up on emergency provisions. Everyone except us that is. My daughter and I looked at each other, exchanged a silent "oops." I tried my best to look unconcerned, but when she wasn't looking I ran to the pantry to make sure we could survive. Phew. Plenty of chocolate. And I think I still have some glow in the dark tubes from her bat mitzvah in the freezer.
My computer screen is sticking to its story, despite a notable absence of precipitation outside. I wait. I schmooze with the other morning regulars. We laugh about people who "do the right thing" -- like stock up on provisions before the storm of the century or write thank you notes. My right eye starts to twitch and it gazes out the window again. Lo and behold, I see flakes. And snowflakes too!
I have nothing against being prepared; I just don't like to waste time doing it too far in advance. Eventually, my survivalist instincts kick in, and even if all the canned goods have long been plucked off the grocery shelves, I have a plan. I pack up my things, treat myself to a second overpriced cup of caffeine (who knows, I might not be able to count on my car as a snowplow this time), and race across to the store to stock up on chocolate.
Though I normally dread being stuck in the house, I occasionally look forward to a chance to hunker down and catch up on things. Like thank you notes. And eating all the old chocolate to make room for the new. Hopefully I'll get it all done in time to watch the nightly news. I'll want to hear about the storm's aftermath, find out about the clean up plans. And whether I'll need more chocolate.
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