So it snowed.
I mean, it didn’t snow ridiculous numbers of feet of snow, as it did up North, in the part of the country I used to live in and some of my family still does and I beg, when I think about winter, that I’ll never have to live there again.
But still, it snowed.
It sleeted and iced and snowed wet and heavy and then, for good measure, it snowed light and fluffy.
To the tune of 8-10 inches, all told.
Which you have to double, when you factor in what the complex did in terms of piling up more snow behind the cars while they “cleared” the lots.
So I went out and dutifully cleared around and behind my car.
I cleared the snow into a pile in FRONT of my car, even though that’s more work, because I know that (1) in 10 years of living here, they have only once come back through and cleared spaces, and on a weekend there just aren’t that many spaces getting emptied to clear anyway and (2) if people throw the snow into the lot, even if they come back through to clean it up (which I doubt) they will only end up piling it BACK up behind my car. In large, frozen, immovable chunks.
So I did it the hard way, while a woman in one of the lot-facing units called out to me that I was doing it the hard way, doing it wrong, and didn’t I know they’d come clear it up later?
Ha. She’s new here. She’s an optimist. She thinks just because they say they will continue to clear, that they will. I have lived here for more than a decade, and therefore believe it when I see it. I could be happily surprised. That would be refreshing.
What is less refreshing is to come back in and peel off soaked layers of clothing (my hands were warm though – thanks again for the gloves, Sis!) and set my keys in a bowl of rice (the fob got wet in my pocket and stopped working) and realize that I have outdoor smell clinging to me.
Funny because when I was outdoors the air seemed clear and crisp and clean, but once it’s clinging to me and I come back in, it always seems like a stench. Not warm-body smell, not perspiration, not uncleanness… just outdoors. Outdoors does not smell good on me.
I’m what you call “indoorsy.”
So is Jim Gaffigan, in a different and much funnier way: