“I’m sorry, what?” Desi Brother asks incredulously. “What?” I ask, bat my eyes a few times, and look at him with faux innocence. “A snow storm is coming. A blizzard, not Halloween of ’91 blizzard, but lots of snow. You know that white, fluffy stuff that you hate and claim is the reason you left Minnesota?” my brother demands. “And?” I ask. “And you plan to drive to Hudson in this weather? For a date?” he demands.
“What can I do? Possible-Mate-from-Chicago drove in from Chicago two days ago to visit his relatives and they live in Wisconsin so this is the best solution,” I say. “How long is he here? Can’t you meet him tomorrow after they plow the roads?” my brother asks. “I don’t know – and really? I am already as girlie as they come. I don’t know that I can be pansy about this. I grew up here. People have the expectation that I can drive in the snow,” I remind. “Yea, but not really well…” my brother says. “That was not my fault,” I snap.
Eight months before I turned 17 my parents bought a red Jeep Cherokee. A few days before Christmas I was merging onto Interstate 35W and I could not have been going more than 30-35 miles an hour, tops, it was snowy, wet and icy so driving faster was suicidal. The car in front of me slammed on its brakes, so I did too. Well I was in 2 wheel drive. So instead of stopping, the wheels locked and I became a whirling dervish. First the Jeep turned 90 degrees and I was facing on-coming traffic (always fun at 7.30 am on Friday). Then the car turned another 90 degrees, so 180 degrees (I did okay in math). By this time I had slid across four lanes of traffic, jumped the curb, and slid down an embankment. Good thing there was a cement wall to break the car’s momentum. I had a cut on my forehead that required 12 stitches and bruised my knees and ribs – but I walked way intact.
“Hhhmm, I don’t know,” my brother says. “I live in New York. I think I can handle some snow…besides he asked if I liked cheesecake.” My brother shoots his brows up, “is he making it for you? Or ordering it for you?” I shrug.
“Fine. Then at least take my car and call me when you get back to Mom and Dad’s,” he says. Aww, how sweet my younger, married with child and mortgage brother is worried about me. Tonight’s going to be a good night. How can it go wrong?