I step out of my front door and almost wipe out, which isn't really the funny part. My driveway has a slant to it, and I slide right past my car, down, down, down the short but slick brickwork, the large garbage bag flailing along with me. I realize I won't make it all the way to the regular trash spot by the road, so I turn my body and attempt to slide to the stone wall. As soon as I can grab it, I hook my free hand into the evergreen tree. With my other hand, I hurl the bag toward the street, hoping its contents don't explode all over the sidewalk.
This is the funny part. I must look like Buster Keaton or Harold Lloyd pulling some old-time movie stunt. I have to admit, I'd pay big money to be a spectator watching my driveway skating routine.
As I am spreading the road-salt gingerly in front of me, a pickup truck crawls down my street, another hill. It takes me a few seconds to realize the truck is completely ice-borne, and it careens sideways into the dangerous intersection, almost getting hit head-on by two mini-vans.
I decide to salt the street, as well, so I don't pull the same stunt.
Twenty minutes after I have started taking out the garbage while leaving my house, my car and I have reached the end of my street (maybe 100 yards) and am slip-sliding into another intersection. Thankfully, the receiving street and the ones I drive on to work have been salted.
I don't mind the snow, and I don't mind the rain. The black ice I can live without. Literally.
