When you live in a wickedly, wintry state like Maine, your life depends on the snowplow person. Most likely, they’ll be male. They might also have the following, quirky characteristics: a surly sense of humor, a fondness for frumpy, flannel shirts and grungy jeans, and the terrible timing of a tow truck driver – turning up when you’re either sound asleep or just waking up.
Now, I have an admiration for these dedicated dudes. If it weren’t for them, we’d be skidding in the slippery streets of sleet. It isn’t easy, moving huge piles of wet, heavy snow for hours. But they do get paid for it. Fairly well, from what I gather. I don’t know why they appear to have an asshole attitude, when they’re not working for free. They seem to sneer at everyone who doesn’t own a plow. Perhaps, their important plow is a survivalists’ status symbol.
Don’t even think about flirting with these grumpy guys. Maybe I’m too old or it’s just too cold – but cleavage cracks won’t clear your car off. Your best bet, if you need any extra assistance from them, is to give them bitter black coffee and a day old doughnut. The cheaper the better. I recently made the mistake, of offering our snowplow dude a delicious latte. He actually cringed and quickly walked away. He seemed suspicious, as if it was an arsenic-laced beverage.
Maybe we’ll buy a snazzy snowplow someday, but I’d rather have a Mercedes first. In the meantime, I’m perfecting my shoveling techniques. After all, I was born and raised in Michigan; I’m no winter-wimp. I bundle up in luscious layers of cashmere and alpaca, put on my warmest boots and gloves, and sling snow like a pro. So let the snowplow dude snicker at my sloppy skills, I don’t care. I’ll make a cup of cozy cocoa when I’m through, and happily watch the flakes fall. Ultimately, I’ll be the one laughing. Fortunately, I don’t have to shovel that shit, at the brisk break of a dismal day.