Of course, I am not in the best frame of mind these days. . . . largely because of the 6 to 10 inches of crap currently blanketing our fair city. Each time someone says, "Isn't the snow pretty?" I have to, as my friend sporter says, throw up just a little in my mouth.
The reality is this: Snow is pretty for about 5 seconds. Then it turns into bileous, white, festering piles of frozen precipitation that have been carefully engineered to make My Life a Living Hell. Period.
|I rest my case.|
A 50-something-year-old woman shouldn't have to clamber over anything.
Oh, sorry again. Did I disturb you?
|I'm coming, Ben, I'm coming.|
Maybe you're under doctor's orders not to lift anything heavier than, say,
|Snow Shovelers' ADD.|
Get help today.
Because, it IS, really, all about me.
Because, and I know this may come as a surprise. . .
I am NOT Sir Edmund Hillary nor National Velvet. I do not like to go up and over things.
Nor am I Robert Peary or Roald Amundsen. I do not rock out exploring vast, frigid arctic wastelands -- otherwise known as your uncleared sidewalk.
|This is what I'm talkin' about, baby. |
Check. It. Out.