Long way home.
6:30 work departure, followed by sliding twenty feet uphill and then back down, followed by an attempted walk up the hill. After that I decided to wait in the car until the salt truck came by.
Podcast and tortilla chips, followed by Dinner at Culinary School with friends, after which I came outside to find it raining.
In my mind this meant that the snow would be melted and driving once again possible on our street. Not so. This time I got halfway up, slid backward into the guard rail, pressed timidly on the gas while the car turned 45 degrees on the hill, slid into a neighbor's driveway, backed up to try and leave room for them to get out. At which point I slid into a ditch, got out and knocked on their door to let them know it was me and that I would be back after the salt truck came.

Walked in the ditch to the top of the hill, took one and a half steps, looked up to see the b.h. sliding at me, arms outstretched as if he was going to take my hand, and then I fell forward onto my knees.
I was clawing upward across our street, literally dragging my purse and bag of groceries behind me, trying to dig my gloved fingers into the ice enough to get a grip, all the while laughing my ass off. He drifted past me, arms still outstretched, arcing away from me and down the hill, until at last his legs slid out from under him and he sat down, slid still further, and landed where I had started in the ditch.
If we had video, I'm fairly certain we would be in the midst of our fifteen minutes of y0ut00b fame right now.

We finally got in the house, where both of us peeled off our wet clothes and showered, and we were in the middle of "Top Chef" (which the b. h. Refers to as his "stories") when there came a knock at the door.
"You should be able to get your car now," the policeman said non-chalantly. "The salt truck has been by." That was it- no explanation needed, I suppose, and no accusation of drunkenness, recklessness, or any other ness.
I still wish we had video.