There’s about a foot of fresh stuff on the driveway. More in some places, less in others. The Wrangler could probably make it out just fine without shoveling, but then all the tamped-down stuff becomes ice later. Better to shovel. Only not really.
I joked (badly) a couple weeks ago that winter arrived this year like a drunken cousin to your holiday party — late and with a lot of commotion. Only, man, is it true.
Melissa is working from home in her jammies. The boy is dressed for school but he’s not going. I’m supposed to have a haircut in 10:30. Yeah, right. We’ve got the Grinch playing softly on the TV, Christmas music playing not-so-softly on the stereo. A fire. Coffee. Lots of coffee. It’s pretty much a perfect day.
So what’s the point of all this? Every word I type is a shovelful of snow I haven’t had to throw around. There could be lots of blogging today.
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