Black on Black Excursion (in the snow)

I woke this morning planning to do what I do every Sunday – sip some coffee, look at my calendar, write some bills and head to the gym.  It’s guns day!  After my coffee, I went to start Loretta (that’s my Honda) and take out the recycling.  In my car, I turned up some old UGK to get me ready for the gym, shifted Loretta into reverse and got … nothing.  She wouldn’t move.  What the fuck.

So I got out of the car and looked at the expanse of snow surrounding the wheel wells.  Ghost has taught me well about cars, and I understand the mechanics solidly enough that I thought I could dig her out.  Twenty minutes and ten numb fingers later, I realized it was futile.

Pissed, I walked back in and wondered what to do with my day.  I did what any sensible writer would do in the situation - brewed a cup of tea and plucked a book from my pile.  I started reading, and four hours passed before I realized I still hadn’t solved the car problem.  Though, for what it’s worth, I did finish a lovely novel! 

So what to do.  I went to the kitchen, looking for some kind of digging tool that might help me.  The shovel is still missing.  I settled on a wooden spoon and went back out onto the street. 

Picture, please, me in Spalding sweats, my hair in some wild sort of Frida-like disarray, my threadbare Columbia jacket, cussing in English and Russian, wearing cat gloves and armed with a wooden spoon.  
Right?
Now step it back just a touch and imagine rich white kids who attend X looking at me suspect-like as they went to their own cars.  Yea, that’s exactly how it happened.

I gave it a valiant effort, but to no avail.  Loretta would not come unhinged.  I thought about what I might do.  The day was already a wash, but, ever the planner, I was considering how I’d get to the office tomorrow. Swallowing my fem pride, I messaged Logan and asked if he and his black on black diesel Excursion might come round to pull me from the snow.

Fifteen minutes later, I heard the diesel engine before I saw the truck. There was Logan with his English style hat, smoking a cigarette and surveying the situation. Looping his truck to my sedan, he pulled Loretta free, and then proceeded to plume diesel smoke into the street while making tracks on my driveway. 

We salted the shit out of the remaining snow, briefly caught up, and he was on his way.  I’d had plans to offer him a meal, but I had nothing prepared.  After the salting, we hugged, two long standing friends joined in the idea that Cincinnati winter can kick rocks, and went on our way.  Big ups, sir.