Well, it’s a-snowin’ like a sumbitch again here in Wes’ BYGAWD Virginny, and as usual, the Evil Not-Really-Our-Landlady will NOT NOT ABSOLUTELY NOT get the parking lot cleared. As we’ve discussed, the redneck hillfolk who live in Ye Olde Apartment Complex don’t go out much, but when they do HAVE to go out (I’m gonna go out on a limb here and say “liquor store”), they are considerably less-than-pleased. One of them has already backed into another one yesterday (as I watched with poorly-concealed glee while carrying in my groceries) and the hunched-up pissed-offded-ness of them as they try to clean off the nine feet of snow on their cars is a joy to behold. Guess maybe they ought to go out more often so that thar snow wouldn’t pile up so deep, huh?
While we’re on the subject, my weird domestic behavior continued with the grocery-shopping trip. I was very excited to go to the Walmart in the middle of Snowpocolypse ’cause that seems to mean nobody else will be there, but it also means that the little bit of a gal who works in the Meat Department (yeah, she handles meat, huh huh) can strike up a conversation with me and basically shame me into buying a pork roast… that I don’t really know how to cook. But you don’t want to admit that to the little meat girl who seems to think you’re some kind of Betty Crocker person, so you buy the big ol’ vulgar-looking thing and then you sit and stare at it and wonder what one does with such a large whonk of meat. I’m thinking garlic and barbeque sauce in a low, slow oven, but I may just end up buying it a sweater and telling people it’s my very lazy dog.
His name will be Buford.