7 a.m. Saturday: Digging.
11 a.m.: Still digging.
Noon: Break for play. Six-year-old, while trudging through hip-high snow, “I thought this would be funner.” Still digging, I had to agree.
5 p.m.: Head over to equally exhausted neighbors’ for a snowed-in hodge podge dinner of homemade pizza, chicken nuggets and deviled eggs. It. Is. Delicious.
9 p.m.: Asleep before my head hits the pillow.
8 a.m. Sunday: Smells like someone made Brussels sprouts.
8:12 a.m.: Brussels sprouts smell intensifies.
8:13 a.m.: Begin to panic over horrible Brussels sprout smell.
9 a.m.: Outside, sunken into thigh-high snow, barking out directions to husband on high-rise ladder as he hoists a extendable pole with a broom tied to it in arcs across the roof, trying to uncover the sewer vent.
Snow is in my boots. Snow is caked to my stretch pants (yes, another good day for lounge wear. Shut up.) Snow is the bane of my existence.
Husband uncovers vent, but in the process sends a mound of snow onto his own head. Snow is hilarious.
10 a.m.: Pause to change into snowpants and dry socks. Inside, Brussels sprouts smell partially digested. Worst. Blizzard. Ever.
11 a.m.: Success! Vent cleared. Air cleared. Fire roaring. Munching on a Pop-tart. Life is good.