Storm Dispatch #1

Mom: Go outside and open the mailbox.

Me: Why?

Mom: Just go see if it opens!

Me: Fine, but I’m putting on real shoes. When you have to take me to the emergency room with a broken leg they’ll ask why I’m wearing fuzzy slippers.

Mom: Whatever.

Me: I will fall and I will die.

Mom: Oh, it’s not that slick.

Me: Ice is falling from the sky.

Mom: But it’s crunchy.

Me: The sound of my skull-bones hitting the pavement? Yes. Crunchy.

Mom: NO. The ice! It’s not slippery.

Me: It’s freezing rain and tar?

Mom: Fine. I’ll go do it.

Me: No. Because you will fall and crunch your pelvis-bones and the ER attending will ask why I made my 61-year-old mother go outside ‘just to open the goddamn mailbox.’

Mom: *muttering words in made-up foreign language*

Me: I’m going outside now! Isn’t anyone going to spot me? Should I have a rope tied around my waist? Call for help if you feel two tugs.

Mom: Ignoring you.

Dad: Huh? What’s going on?

Me: Your wife is sending your only daughter on a death march.

Dad: Huh? Who’s Mark?

Me: I’m leaving now! Farewell, mes amis!

Dad: Hey, I think this is a ‘How It’s Made’ marathon!

*Julie takes the first cautious steps onto the front porch, only to find that the mixture of freezing rain and light snow actually is kind of crunchy and offers surprising traction*

Me: *whispering* This isn’t bad.

Mom: *from inside the house* WHAT? WHAT DID YOU SAY?

*Julie walks quickly to the mailbox. The snow-ice beneath her feet is fun to run through. She tries the mailbox. It is covered in 2″ of ice*

Me: fuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuck

Neighbor: What that crazy white girl doing?

Me: shitshitshitshitshitshit *scampers back into house on the moon-snow*

Me: I need a chisel or something. It won’t open.

Mom: Oh, don’t worry about it. I was just curious if it was frozen shut.

*sound of shotgun blast from inside the home*

Neighbor: What that crazy white girl doing?



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