Recently my part of the world experienced something rare — two blizzards within a week that added up to a lot of damn snow. Lest I get mocked by those living in Minnesota or upstate New York, understand this: I live in the city, where a lot of people share a small amount of coveted space. We normally have a fair amount of tolerance for one another, having learned to peacefully coexist and respect the unwritten rules of the neighborhood. Following the snow, however, all social conventions got lost in a snowdrift. The first blizzard brought out the ugly side, and the second blizzard invoked a new level of lunacy among my neighbors. I started to ask myself “Just who are these people in my neighborhood? And do I really want to meet them each day?”

As a neighbor, I’m certainly not without my faults. My anti-social tendencies keep me from engaging too many neighbors in conversation out of fear that they will ask me for a favor. I’m also not a big fan of people with pets, particularly those who let their pets crap outside my house. And I’m quickly becoming that crazy lady who yells at the kids to stop making so much noise. However, after this latest round of snow, I’ve learned that I may just be the sanest person on the block.

Following the blizzards, my husband and I began the process of shoveling our pavement and digging out our car. Shoveling the pavement was easy enough — we shoveled a path just wide enough to avoid being sued. Then we walked along the street to our car. I figured that removing four feet of snow from our car would be physically challenging. I never expected it to be psychological warfare.

As we began to shovel, a neighbor came out of his house to instruct us not to track any snow onto his pavement. We also had to ensure that the drain in his pavement remained clear at all times while we shoveled our car out from approximately fourteen feet of snow, most of which had been thrown by him from his pavement onto our car. Feeling my blood start to boil, I decided to ignore him and keep shoveling. He continued to supervise our efforts.

Not long after, another neighbor decided to get into the action, yelling at us to keep the snow away from her pavement because her 80-year-old father needed clear access into her house. It was then that her husband rolled up in his SUV with three cases of Coors Light. I saw a lot of beer but no old men hobbling into the house. My blood pressure continued to rise.

Apparently, our shoveling became something of afternoon entertainment, because soon after that, a few old ladies ventured out of their houses to stare, point, and comment on the snow hitting their pavements.

Now, I’m relatively new to this particular neighborhood. For all I know, the obsessive concern about snow and pavements could have been some kind of wacky initiation ritual. But I had reached my boiling point. Unfortunately for the neighbors, they didn’t know that I happen to be a graduate of Philadelphia “charm school”. If you are not familiar with Philadelphia, the City of Brotherly Love is not quite so loving. It’s a city that boos everyone. It pelts Santa Claus with snowballs. It would probably slap Jesus if he got out of line. As a product of this city, I have learned how to be a loud, aggressive, foul-mouthed bitch when the situation deems necessary. And this situation was definitely one for showing my Philadelphia charm school diploma.

Eventually my husband and I came away with a car free of snow and some new enemies. When I finally had a chance to reflect on my argument with the neighbors, though, I realized that snow on the pavement has become representative of something much greater. This is a world where we often have little control over our lives. Wall Street controls our finances. Politicians control our government. The state controls our unemployment checks. But there is one thing that we can control: the amount of snow on our front pavement. So if the neighbors have to drive me mad in an attempt to keep their pavements clear, then that’s what they have to do.

Unfortunately for me, it’s snowing here again, which means I’ll eventually have to dust the snow off of my car. It’s too bad because I’m not sure I can afford to have any more enemies in this neighborhood.

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