The other day, after a flash snowstorm totaling four measly, sticky inches and an immediate drop in temperature that froze all of the dang stuff into blocks of ice, Jon awoke to an early morning squash game, 6 AM styles. He headed downstairs and out the front door to clear off the car and shovel out the driveway. Hearing nothing out of the ordinary, I drifted back to warm, fuzzy sleep.
Jon arrived home an hour and a half later, sweaty and smelly, with a gift:
"Apparently" he ripped it off while "attempting to open" the frozen door. Because that "sometimes happens when you have brute physical strength."
I have no words.
Rita is now a collection of multicolored body parts with a masking-taped left eyeball and missing a damn hand.
It's getting real Milwaukee styles over here.
Next stop: his and hers Slim Jims, so we can break into the car through the driver's side window.