The across-the-street neighbor just came over to snowblow the driveway. I'm checking my email and websurfing, and he - around 60 years old, Political Science prof who I call "the evil lawn elf" because he wears a hooded sweatshirt when leaf-blowing in the fall, seemingly making all sorts of noise for very little reason - is risking a heart attack to clean my driveway. It's not making me rush for my duck boots and scarf to join the fun, but I do feel more guilty than usual.
The snow did come, in earnest. At least 4" so far. It would've been awful to drive through. Sneaking away from my vacation like a scared little girl was actually justified.
Slightly Married wasn't bad. The title was even sort of justified by the story, although only just barely. To quote a recent television commercial, "it wasn't rocket surgery."
This snowblowing is too much.
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