Living Single, Maggie Shayne

“I can do it myself, I don’t need any help, and I wouldn’t ask if I did.”

Famous last words, right? But they've become my mantra. This living single thing is giving me some challenges, but I’m stubbornly sure I can face every last one of them.

In preparation for the winter, I bought a snow thrower. Spent a lot on it. Waited for the snow to come, sure I could handle it all by myself. Well, the snow finally came.

First, I shoveled off the back deck, because the dogs refused to tromp through the snow to go do their business unless I dragged them out. So I figured they’d like it better without six inches to wade through. I shoveled and swept and did a fantastic job. It was tiring. The snow was pretty deep and pretty heavy, and the wind was blowing like crazy. But it wasn’t all that terrible.

Great. Feeling wonderful about my independent tackling of the snow situation, I headed out front to begin working on the driveway. I cleaned off my car, first. There was a lot of snow on it, and it had drifted on both sides.

Next, I went to the shed to get out the expensive snow thrower I bought. I had to wheel it to the house from the garden shed, plug it in via extension cord, and then start it up. (You can also start it via ripcord, but this seemed the easiest bet.) I’d already gassed it up and filled it with oil and practiced running it, so I was ready. However, I’d never used it on any actual snow.

So I began, wading into the drifts, and aiming the spout toward the side of the driveway. But the wind was blowing so hard that almost all the snow blew directly back into my face. That was no fun. I tried blowing it another way, but it didn’t make much sense to blow the snow up against the house. It took a long, long time to blow the snow out of the driveway, especially with the wind blowing it right back in. And it started snowing again while I worked on it. I got most of one side done, then moved the car, and started on the other side. The machine was heavy and difficult to turn around and manipulate. The blowing device just didn’t blow far enough.

Finally, I took the snow thrower back to the shed, shut it off and put it away. Then I went and got the snow shovel and finished up with that, scraping up the places where the snow thrower (or its operator?) had been ineffective.

I was worn out and freezing and still not done, when a pick up went by, stopped and backed up. Two men sat there. I went over, asking what they wanted, thinking they were probably some chivalrous farmers who were going to offer to plow me out or help shovel. Of course, I had my answer on my lips before they spoke. I was going to say, “No thanks. I can do it myself, don’t need any help.” But they only leered at me for a minute, then asked if I knew whether “Shelly” was home. I was like, “huh?” and they said, “Shelly. Your neighbor. Is she home?”

Suddenly there was the voice of a harridan in my head, muttering, "how the hell would I know if Shelly is home? You apparently just drove by her house, where no doubt her driveway is full of snow. She probably couldn’t get out if she wanted to, but did you bother to stop and see if she needed any help? Of course not! You couldn’t even go up and knock on the door, because it was easier to stay in your warm, cozy truck and ask the next person you spotted if Shelly was home."

Out loud, though, all I said was, “I don’t even know Shelly.” And then I went back to work, and they drove away. Not back toward the possibly snow-bound Shelly’s place, either. (And why was I feeling so hostile toward men at that moment? I don’t know, but I’m jotting a note to take to therapy next month.)

When I finally finished, I was frozen, tired, and achy. I went back inside, hung up my snowy clothes, and glanced out the back door at the deck I had shoveled first. It was already covered in a couple of inches of new snow. And the wind was rapidly forming new drifts in the driveway. I had spent roughly two and a half hours and accomplished almost nothing. And my back was killing me and I was exhausted and my face was blotchy and chapped and raw from the wind, which wasn’t pretty. My face, I mean. The wind wasn't pretty either but, oh, hell you get the point.

I sat down feeling utterly defeated. I was so determined to be able to do this myself. But I realized that this was only the first snowstorm of the season, I might not want to repeat this all winter long. Would I have to find someone who plows driveways—probably a man—and hire him to plow mine? I’d feel terrible about that. Like I had failed.

Now that feeling doesn’t make a lot of sense. I could have written at least a few hundred dollars' worth of words in the same amount of time it took me to wrestle with the stupid snow. I can probably get it plowed for fifty bucks. Honestly, I’m much farther ahead to spend my time writing and pay someone else to deal with the snow. But it still felt like a failure. I don’t want to have to have someone else do it. I want be able to do it myself. Logic doesn’t even enter into it.

So clearly I’m something of a neurotic basket case here. What would kill me would be admitting that I just simply can’t. I hate saying that. I can’t do it. So there it is. I can do it, and I will do it, and that’s that.

I mentioned at a gathering with my daughters what a hard time I had with the snow clearing. Daughter number one says, “Gee, Mom, my husband’s grandmother plows her own driveway,” and daughter number two says, “So does my mother in law.”

Great. So now my pride is on the line as well. Thanks, girls.

Day two of the real winter: I woke up to frozen water pipes.

Okay, yeah, it hit me a little hard after the day of snow nonsense. But fortunately, the former owner had pointed out which pipe tends to freeze, and left me a propane tank, nozzle thingie, and a lighter. So, I found the frozen pipe, lit the little propane torch, and thawed it out all by myself. And I was so proud you’d have thought I’d invented the wheel. I felt as capable and independent as freakin’ Wonder Woman. All I needed was the sequined red, white and blue body suit. (And the little tiara. No way am I doing without the tiara, babe.)

As I looked outside after the pipes were thawed, I saw that the driveway was covered again. But this time, the snow had stopped falling, there was no wind, the sun was shining. So, feeling freshly empowered and singing "I am woman, hear me roar," I bundled up and went out, deciding to try again. I scraped the driveway clean in half the time--maybe less--that it had taken me before, and this time the snow didn’t blow back in. It was much easier. Afterward I spread salt on the slippery spots. I did the deck too, and the front steps, and it looked fantastic.

Okay, so here’s what I’ve learned. You learn about cleaning snow out of driveways as you go along. Like everything else in life. I learned to wait until it’s done snowing, for sure, and the weather is calm. I also learned the guy wasn’t kidding about the pipe that tends to freeze, and that instead of waiting for that to happen and then thawing it out, it would be better to be pro-active and prevent it. Steps have been taken, heat tape applied, and yes, I accepted help this time, and it didn’t bother me. It kind of felt nice, as a matter of fact. Maybe it’s easier for me to let someone give me a hand when I’m feeling like Wonder Woman, than it is when I’m feeling like—I don’t know, Little Bo Peep, I guess. It’s also easier to accept help when someone, especially your best friend, just shows up with heat tape in hand, and offers. Way easier than asking.

Yeah, that same best friend is probably making a list of the things I've been revealing about myself lately.
She’s neurotic.
She’s moody.
She’s damn stubborn.
She will not ask for help.
You have to be a freakin’ mind reader with that one.
And what in the name of God is the deal with the sequined red, white and blue body suit?

The driveway is, of course, snowy again this morning. Where are my mittens and tiara?

Maggie