I hate snow. Yeah, it looks nice when it is marshmallowy and pristine, coating the outside world with purity and light.
And then you're stuck in your house until the plows open up the street and somebody (not you) shovels the 100 foot long driveway so you can possibly get to the mailbox and then, you gotta get all that snow off your car.
I am short. Not tiny, but actually average for an American woman. However, I have a high vehicle, an SUV I think, or a crossover thing, that is way taller than I am. In order to clean off the roof, I'd have to stand in the open door and somehow slide the snow into the driveway which has to be cleared first.
Yes, this is a rant.
Yes, I do truly hate snow.
I even hate the anticipation of snowfall in which, though imprecise, usually sends me into paroxysms of dread.
Whether it turns out to be the "mere dusting" or the "one to three inches" or the "six to twelve" somebody just predicted, I don't want any part of it.
Yes, we made the obligatory trip to the packed grocery story in order to stock up on essentials. We have bread and milk and eggs and even bread mix for the machine (only I need yeast) and stuff to eat.
But Elyse has to get to work tomorrow. She travels the parkway and an interstate most of the way, and they will be well plowed, but still, she has to travel and not be safe here with us. So I will worry.
She might be able to stay with someone down there, so I will insist she take an emergency kit when she leaves. They might even call off work, though I doubt it.
Here's the thing about snow. I can tolerate it if somebody else has to be bothered with plowing and shoveling and fetching and carrying and as long as our electricity stays on. Oh, wait!
We have a generator!!!!!