Look Out, Punxy Phil!

More snow. Geez.

Stupid groundhog. Early spring. HAH!

I should be on the road right now, heading to Meadville or Hamburg or some other city an hour or two away. Instead I am parked in my LaZ Boy, electric blanket cranked up to ten, sipping cup number 2 of Folgers. The gale is howling, another 5 to 10 predicted on top of the ten or so inches that is heaped on my front lawn. It rained yesterday, so the streets are slick with ice, rutted snow and the inevitable potholes of February.

Husband says it is too nasty to go anywhere. He should know. It took him 45 minutes to come 11  miles home this morning. My dog, a hundred pounds of husky (maybe malamute) and Shepard (just a guess) did his thing, banged furiously on the door, vowed to learn to use the indoor facilities and is now curled up on the couch, tail covering his nose. We're all sick of it.

As blizzards go, this one is a doozy, though I have seen worse. The pellets pummeling the storm door, the steps that will have to be shoveled for the mailman, the sidewalk that was clean yesterday--been there, done that.

I have an AWD, a fairly large SUV that takes winter in stride for the most part. It's the other guy. The one in the mini-Cooper or the minuscule Kia who has to be there RIGHT NOW. Or worse, the Avalanche or Escalade who feels invincible in the snow-packed terrain, driving at warp speed to get where?

Later, after the plows venture onto our oft-neglected side street, I will attempt to go earn a few bucks more in my paycheck. I will gripe the whole time. I am fed up with my pink fur coat, the thermal-lined driving gloves, boots and socks and all the other paraphernalia of winter. I long for barely-there tank tops, sun-blessed peaches and strappy sandals. I want to complain about the heat for a change.

Work be damned. I'm going to Punxy to make mincemeat out of that groundhog.