Remember all the melting of the snow?
Remember how I said that I'd go tromping in a few days and start my way-too-early hunting for new green noses?
Well, of course, I lied.
And a good thing, too, otherwise I'd have missed this:
Gen-u-ine daffodil fingers reaching toward the warm, warm air! Right outside my door, where I could see them as I hollered at Molly-dog to "Go Potty! Go on! Get going, now! You go Potty! Go Potty! NOW!"
It was so lovely and warm, I didn't even need shoes on the warm pavement. I did, of course stay on the concrete and not go romping in the snow along side. Here, I even took a picture to prove it:
Ooooooh! Which is more blinding-white? The snow or Diana's feet? I'm almost to the time that I'll throw some polish on those long-hidden tootsies. Almost.
The weekend was soon to be here! The weekend with the rainstorms! Remember?
Well, seems like they got the temperature wrong by about 20 degrees.
And that 20 degrees meant that instead of a fuckload of rain, we got a fuckload of snow.
The kids were happy, though, and spent much of Sunday morning having a snowball fight over and around the huge piles of snow that lined the driveway.
So, we went from anticipating all the snow being gone to getting a good foot of it all over everything, with some drifts of 2-3 feet and the 6 foot piles from the plow. I do realize that this is nothing to those living in places like Buffalo, NY, where the snow would be higher than the roof of my house. (And how the hell do you clear your walk? If it's 11 feet high, how do you toss the snow over that? I mean, just look at our front walk. And that's only about a foot of snow fall!)
And so my tootsies are covered, again, as are the daffodil fingers and the tulip noses that are just inches away.
Hmmmmm..... I feel like I'm forgetting something.....Oh! Of course! For those of you wondering how poor Beaker fared, I'm afraid that this now makes Snowplow, 3: Beaker, nil.
He'd be flat on his side if it weren't for all the snow that's acting as a pillow as well as a blanket. Nighty-night, Beaker. Sleep tight. Dream of spring and no more marauding plows.
Labels: The Life Rural