Bob Is Very Sore-y
No, not the kind of sore I am at the way The West is committing a slow and very painful suicide.
Rather, I spent a good chunk of today shoveling out from the second major snowstorm in six days [this one was supposed to drop only about six to eight inches and we’re at about sixteen here after eighteen hours of it; combine that with the two feet we got last week].
I’m fifty-three years old and eight years ago I went through chemo, which ages you in many ways. I’m tired and my mind is having trouble right now composing anything other than one or two sentence quips in other people’s Comment sections.
God love Mrs. B. who wages tenacious battles against the snow with the kick-arse snowblower I gave her for Christmas two years ago [can I pick ’em, or what? (she also makes sure our full bar is always sticked)]. I would be lost with out her in every way, but, most especially right now, I’d be lying dead in a snowbank doing my best Robert Falcon Scott impression if she weren’t such a trooper. And, to top it all off, she found the time to make me a wonderful calzone and a delicious quesadilla. God shed his Grace on me.
Time to get a bit corny [and I’m not the only one doing that, Jack] with Frank: