Since it dipped down into the single digits last night, with "blustery winds" (confession: every time a meteorologist uses "blustery winds", all I can think of is Piglet getting blown away. Apparently, I am 4 years old.), all that accumulated sleet froze solid.
I have been listening to the whiiiiiiIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIiiiiiiiiiiine of spinning tires for a half-hour now as assorted neighbors with their bigger-than-life SUVs and monster pickups have attempted to get their vehicles out of their frozen parking spaces.
Sweet irony. I in my Camry have already backed out overtop the frozen chunks and gone to take the baby to his home-based daycare. And when I returned, I crunched overtop the frozen piles back into my space. And I can do it again, because it is no threat to MY balls if I don't stomp on the gas pedal like Richard Petty. Why is it that every single one of them has tried to resolve the situation by stomping harder on the gas?
Schadenfreude. Its what's for breakfast.