I have somehow lost my tolerance for wine–how, I don’t know–but apparently after one glass of wine on New Years Eve I started sending inappropriate texts to The Hubs.  Who was sitting on the other end of the couch.  Here’s what I found on my cell phone the next day:

Indeed.  I’m looking for that.  The Doctor.  Yes.

And, my personal favorite:

I’m looking for a time lord.  And a sonic screw.  Driver.

Yeah.  I’ve evidently entered the Nerd-dom phase of my life.  Allons-y!
So, Thursday saw the arrival of Snow-pocolypse 2014, or rather, the forecast of Snow-pocolypse 2014.  We ended up only getting between 3-5 inches of snow (sorry New England friends), but prior to the realization of this, everyone freaked out.  Freaked out.
Here in Western Pennsylvania, even the slightest hint of precipitation prompts people to

1. Immediately drive fifteen miles under the speed limit
2. Go to the grocery store en masse, to purchase bread, milk, water, toilet paper, etc
3. Start insisting Day Job is going to close early because “It’s getting real bad out there.”

I, personally, don’t run out to buy milk at the mention of weather “events,” as milk will spoil and, as demonstrated in 2010 when we lost electricity/heat/water for a week after Snow-pocolypse actually did happen, so will the rest of the food in the freezer/fridge.  I’ll buy bread.  I’ll buy extra peanut butter.  No dairy.  Fun fact: The Hubs and I played Guess Who? (The Mystery Game!)  and Skip-Bo by candlelight during that festive week of unhappiness.  We were trapped in the house because the driveway was under two feet of snow and, as I was seven months pregnant, I wasn’t about to walk anywhere but to the bathroom.  Understandably, when the weatherman mentions snow, I get a little nervous and start evaluating how hard it will be to walk down the driveway with two children strapped to my back.
I’m a nervous driver, too.  I drive a glamorous SUV and I drive it cautiously.  Nothing raises my blood pressure higher than drivers who tailgate me and darn it, I’ll pull over and let you go around if you’re in that much of a hurry.  Because nine times out of ten, I’m not in a hurry.
So, Thursday, the snow decided to hit us hardest at the start of rush hour.  Because that makes it all the more convenient.  The roads were a messy mess of slush and snow; everything was starting to just look gray and dirty and horrific and that, friends, is the time I had to leave work.  Awesome.
I shakily cleaned off the car and sat in the parking lot for a few minutes, giving myself a pep talk.  You can do it.  The main roads will be fine.  This was actually an accurate pep talk, as the main roads were fine.  It was just the side roads and hills I had to descend to get to the main roads that were the problem.
Since my office is on the top of a gargantuan hill, the drive down to the highway was harrowing.  I took the long way around and went down in second gear.  That said, by the time I got to the back roads/wooded/hilly area that leads to our woodland shanty, I was a wee bit on edge.  Just a bit.  There are a lot of S-turns through the woods, so my plan was to drive down the hill/through the woods in second gear.  No cars in sight, so this will be fine.
No cars in sight, that is, until a gray SUV with no headlights on came flying down the road behind me.  Well, maybe not flying.  But he was driving with far more confidence than I was driving, to which I said, “Well, son of a gun.”  Which is totally not what I said.  But you get the picture.
So, I decided if he’s in that much of a hurry, I’ll just pull over right here in the nice, large, pull over area in front of all these people’s houses.  Because, really, what’s all that out of control about pulling over in front of people’s houses?
I put on my turn signal and pulled over.  My brain said, “Go around, jag off.”
And the SUV slowed to a stop next to me.  He did this because, as I very quickly realized, he was a cop.
Well, son of a gun.
He motioned for me to roll down my window.  My internal monologue sounded something like this, “How in the world am I getting pulled over for pulling over?  I could be parking.  I could totally be parking and need to get into one of these houses.  Maybe I look suspicious.  Wait, do I look suspicious?  Is pulling over to let a cop pass you acting suspicious?  How do you roll these windows down again?  Oh crap, now I really look suspicious.”
My mouth said, “Hi.”
“Are you okay?”  He asked, obviously out of genuine concern.
This, strangely, made me cry–which was not what I was going for.  I cannot even imagine how bizarre I looked: huge, teary brown eyes, pale skin, overall look of horror.  I said, “I just get really nervous.”
He looked down the road.  “How far do you have to go?”
I momentarily forgot where I live.  When I remembered, I told him and simultaneously realized my house was, maybe, only two miles away.
He seemed to consider this.  “You’ll be fine.  Just take it easy.”
“Thank you!”  I squeaked.  I then managed to hit some completely wrong button and opened the moon roof, something I didn’t actually notice until I got home.  My poor little perplexed mind kept pondering, “What in the world is that noise?  Is it getting colder in here?”
Honestly.  I’m a hot mess even in subzero temperatures.  Speaking of which, the weather app on my phone is reporting Tuesday will have a low of -11 and a high of 1.  1 degree.  I’m completely looking forward to that, said no one ever.  Let’s just hope my TARDIS hat gets here in time, so I can be awkward with style.