Pass the Tylenol.

Apparently it was really important that we get all of our snow for December, January, and February in the space of about 36 hours. I just finished shoveling the walk for the umpteenth time, and it's time for some painkillers. As a lifelong Minnesotan (say it with me: "Minnesoooohtan") I appreciate the value of good snow removal tools. A broom propped against the back door to get those really light fluffy flakes that fall when the clouds sneeze in October. A sturdy shovel with a handle long enough so my nose doesn't touch the sidewalk for the medium stuff. And a snowblower for those batten-down-the-hatches-here-she-comes-holy-cow-is-that-a-lot-of-snow blizzards that start in January and pretty much settle in until March.

Broom? Check.

Shovel? Check.

Snowblower? Buried in the shed under about three feet of snow.

Since this is the first real snow (and by real, I mean it will last longer than until the clouds clear) we've received this winter, there hasn't been an occasion for me to fire up the old gal. Unfortunately, by the time I finally realized that Old Man Winter meant business this time, the shed and its contents were already entombed under a foot and a half of the white stuff. It's been coming down pretty much solid since Saturday night, and though I've taken the time to keep the front walk clean (at the expense of my back, arms, legs, and several other things I won't mention) my duties as student and Papa haven't left me enough spare time to tunnel to the shed. Okay, okay, yes, I did have a few minutes free between laundry and dishes and toys and diapers and infectious disease notes, but I used them to sleep.

So now I face the prospect of trying to retrieve my faithful friend from her white prison either after everyone else is in bed or before they get up. As you can see, I'm wisely using my time now to blog for you. And why, you ask?

The gas in the tank on that snowblower has been sitting there since September. I'm sure it's become a gelatinous goo by this point. Which means that it probably won't start anyway, even if I can get it out. I have grudgingly promised my aching self to try tomorrow, if only to give my arms a reason to hope (I may be approaching the overdose point on Tylenol) but if you hear a groan/scream/snarl followed by an explosion...well, you can guess.

Ah, the joys of winter. Next year, I'm buying a Bobcat.