We’re on Day Three of the Blizzard of 2010. I guess it’s technically Day 2.5, but that doesn’t have quite the same ring to it, and Day Three is easier to type out. We’ll go with it. Given the Code Red level of area preparation for this meteorological event, my best friend came to my apartment on Thursday night, driving the five miles from her house with most of her fridge in several recyclable bags.  It’s been interesting just how the days that followed unfolded, starting with something of a party-level of excitement on Friday, the night we drank the champagne. We took some pictures, too, but given the champagne, they’re a little blurrier than intended. I know I ate my weight in her fantastic onion dip; Worcestershire sauce makes all the difference. We arranged my new towels in my bathroom. I am pretty sure I was in bed by 10 pm.

Yesterday could have been titled Shock and Awe. The snow tally is slightly visually overwhelming, and it isn’t every day that you look at your best friend and ask, could the snow be seeping into our cars at this point? She didn’t know either. Saturday brought her first viewing of Titanic. She wasn’t nearly as weepy as I’d wanted her to be, but I’m guessing that’s due to her simulupdating her Facebook status and checking throughout both discs for responses. We measured the depth of the untouched snow with wine bottles and laughed endlessly at the flavor that one local correspondent brings to his clips. I napped. We played gin rummy and I won each time. We watched every available episode of Real World DC and she pointed out the production flaws in each; nothing is quite as interesting as hearing the critiques of an expert. Reports on Twitter of 19-hour power outages scared us into hoarding the Duraflame logs just in case. We took a walk and discussed whether or not Segways come with snow chains. We almost made it to the park before admitting neither of us could feel our toes. We snapped this pic and turned around.

I read 50 pages of my book this morning and have cuddled both cats after forcing them to let me airplane them around the living room. We’ve taken turns watching the progress of our testosteroned neighbors as they spoon their cars out from beneath the white heaps. As far as I’m concerned, it’s an exercise in eventual frustration; the DC plows will come through at some point and undo all that sweaty work. Maybe the men are taking a little breather from the togetherness at home. I’m fine just to enjoy the day on the inside, showered with stubby nails painted the darkest shade of red I’ll allow. I’ll nap and read and force the cats to kiss me on the mouth. There’s always tomorrow for getting back to life.