I had a dream last night that I was writing an entry in my journal. I remember having four great topics to blog about, which is about four more than I've had lately. That's how I know it was a dream.
In what passes for my real life, I was in the city over the weekend for a couple of parties. When I arrived at the first one, ready to consume my half of the buffet table, the weather alarmists were already predicting twelve hours worth of snow. So I decided not to stay too long at the first party in order to have enough time to eat my fill at the second. That way I could still get home before my storm doors became frozen shut -- again.
On the way home after the second party, I noticed I only had a quarter tank of gas. Ah, yes I thought, tonight is the night that I will become the poster child for what happens when you leave home without a full tank.
Tragically Mrs. Linklater ran out of gas at the entrance to her driveway. It may not seem like a long distance to some, but the last twenty feet can be the hardest when you're used to valet parking.
If I ran out of gas,
I was SFB -- sh*t for brains. Oh sure, I had my cell phone with me, but it doesn't have a GPS chip, so no one would know where I was until the garbage guys showed up on Tuesday.
The one time I didn't have a pile of polar fleece, Sorel boots, and an expedition parka in the back is the one time I would need them. I would be found huddled in the fetal position, trying to
keep warm with two jars of Nutella and some Pepperidge Farm cookies.
Nah.I'd make a run for the house.
Mrs. Linklater's frost covered body -- wearing a surprisingly nice [for her] shiny black leather-made-to-look-like-snakeskin jacket, enhanced with a decorative scarf she was going to give as a gift but decided to keep for herself -- was found with one of her bare hands wrapped around the handle of her storm door, the other with a can of WD40. In a final desperate act, Mrs. Linklater seems to have planted her left foot against the house as if she were trying to force the door to open by pulling on the handle and pushing against the bricks. Sadly, her gold-tasseled party shoes were no match for the frozen back door. The officers who arrived for her weekly wellness check had no comment.
Traffic was so bumper to bumper on the highway driving home that I actually called 911 to complain. I had already passed a Mini Cooper that had been there so long the snow was almost fender high from the snowplows going around it. Sitting like a statue waiting for pigeons, the forlorn little thing looked like someone had driven it to the middle lane of the expressway and just parked it.
There was a traffic stop, too. At least it looked like a traffic stop. Two cop cars with their lights flashing. A guy sitting in his car, engine running, on the side of the road. Pulled over for what? Speeding? Just going 35 felt like Indy. I saw one cop mouth to the other cop, "He's okay." Maybe the guy was feeling too drunk to deal with the slipping and sliding and pulled over. That might be a first in Chicago.
Mrs. Linklater only had a quarter tank of gas and nothing to keep her warm if she she ran out, but she was in her trusty Jeep, wearing brand new Wranglers with FRESH TREADS, so she was gripping snow like, um, a metaphor that wouldn't be appropriate here. Let's just say her car was hanging onto the road like it was wearing crampons. Which is probably why she really wasn't worried about running out of gas without any warm gear in the car. And she got home just fine thank you.
Na na na na na.