How many *more* inches of snow? Another 12? Really?
The vomit gods decide that an 'epic' (the riled-up meteorologists' term, not mine) snowstorm is the time to strike?
By day four of being housebound, does getting out of lounge wear/pjs really matter?
Do we have enough milk? Wait, let me get this straight, you used two cups of our diminishing milk supply to make chocolate pudding?!?!?!
When did our toddler perfect that mischievous-contemplative-sideways glance? And then learn to give chase?
When did I become so afraid of falling on the ice?
No pub for miles? We sloshed down the road to the general store instead and I lingered 5 minutes longer than necessary - just to see other people and catch up on the local gossip.
When does the word klutz not even begin to cover it? When I manage the following within an hour. I fell while trying to clear the roof of our car - my jacket got caught on the car door, left me hanging mid-air for a spell, ripped and summarily dropped me on the ground. Then, shaken from the snow clearing debacle, I almost got in a fender bender. And the piece-de-resistance? I knocked a part of our front bumper off when I accidentally hit a boulder of ice that was jutting out of the side of a country road, after a blind curve. Two devoted screws kept it in place so I could limp home. Not without having to drive by the aforementioned general store - to the delight and amusement of the burly men who sit on the front porch to talk and watch the profoundly inept world go by.
So, you see, not much time for writing. What with all of scrapes I have been getting into and what life has been handing us. Spring, please show up soon. And save me from myself in the way of pale green shoots, the smell of soil and the promise of outdoor time. LOTS of outdoor time. You know, without the vomit.