Talking About the Weather
I don't know what it is with me--maybe it's all the gigondas wine we drank with dinner that had such a gigantic sound to it that I became gigantically tipsy straight away--but I never felt frightened on our drive home: after our friend pushed us out of his driveway, Michael slid elegantly from one side of the road to the other, we drifted into snowbanks, we saw cars shuddering off the road and pitching into ditches--and the whole time I had a cozy winter feeling as if I were underneath a blanket watching The Nutcracker on TV.
I had intended to write this as a happy post about the gorgeous, late-season snowfall, but instead I seem to have revealed yet another of my personality disorders. What's this one? Treacherous Weather Dissociation? Sleet Mania? I'm not sure.
But it really is lovely here. I don't mind it right at the end like this--winter's little parting joke. If it weren't for the fact that we were supposed to see my parents, and must now wait a week, I would be just about perfectly happy.
Also because I'm not living through this.
I have got to encourage you to read the comments on this one. All I can say, with respect to barfing children, is: I'm glad we don't have a dog.