When Mick and I (Karen) first got together 30 years ago, we spent many a-winter weekend at a dear friend's (you know who you are!) vacation home in the White Mountains. It was an epic winter, the one when the Boston Globe measured snow depths next to a sketch of Celtic's phenom Robert Parish (eventually with a snorkel, as the snow accumulated over his 7'1" height). On many of those weekends, it would snow a ton on Sunday. We would ski our petuties off all weekend, then look at the forecast for Monday, with bluebird skies and fresh powder, and make the entirely irresponsible decision to blow work off and spend an extra night in the Whites for a day of mid-week powder skiing. To my horror (and I probably shouldn't be saying this publicly), Mick would call his boss and say that the ski conditions were too good to pass up, and he'd be back to work on Tuesday. (I would leave a late-night message for my boss saying that I had a sore throat.)
Why am I telling you this? HAVE YOU SEEN THE FORECAST??? I'm writing this on Thursday evening, and the snow is supposed to arrive in a few hours. Then ALL day Friday, over a foot, and all through Saturday. It could be two feet by Saturday night. Now, I care about your safety, so I'm not necessarily suggesting you drive up on Friday after work in the middle of the storm. But by Saturday roads should be clear. And we've got some rooms available. With your name on them. You can tell your boss whatever you'd like (we've got super-fast WiFi if you need it).
Think snow! (I think with this storm, it's safe to say Know Snow) -
Karen (and Mick)
