Snow my God. My house, my poor little house that we’ve been fixing up with bathrooms, and siding, and roofs, and gardens, well, my poor little house is still a poor little house. And it’s the snow’s fault. It’s been snowing and snowing and snowing and melting and then snowing. I mean, can you imagine the roads? Well, now our gutters are one big ice damn and it’s melting into the sliding glass doorway. I thought it peculiar when I found the screen covered with icicles and the faint sound of a drip. Turns out, it’s melting on the outside and inside of the glass door. Just great. Now, besides snow, who else can we blame? The roofers? The siding guys?
And I know everything is fixable. I know we’ll get it figured out. But I was really hoping to save that tax return. Or, buy a camera. or a sewing machine.
Anyway, what I need is a cute photo fix.
and these will do (my dd, L, wearing overalls, a belt, and high heels.)
I believe there are two kinds of people in this world. The ones that don’t scrape and the ones that do. By scrape I mean scrape the car, you know, after a snowfall. Or, if you’re a meticulous scraper, during the snowfall. Today, when I came out of the grocery store and it had been snowing while I was in there, just a sprinkle of snow, nothing a few wipes with the windshield blades couldn’t take care of, everyone was out scraping their cars, nodding to each other. Engines were running and you could hear the stereos blasting from within the shut windows and doors. Perhaps it was because the temp rose above 10 degrees during the snowfall, I don’t know, but I really didn’t think all this scraping was necessary. I smiled though, and then to fit in I decided to kick the snow accumulation on the back of my bumper, just above the tires. You know, that really gross, icky, polluted, nasty snow. Ugh. Just the thought of it sitting there rusting my bumper gives me the heebies, but I never take the time to kick it off, because, well, I am lazy. But today was different. I approached the brown stuff, coordinated my eyes with my legs, and swooped my foot – bam! – right into it. Uck splattered everywhere, even into my mouth, my eyes, my jacket, and my daughter’s hair (she was a witness to this). Why had I not considered this outcome? Why did I then feel as though everyone was staring at me, thinking ‘why didn’t you just scrape like the rest of us?’ Why?