First of all, it sleeted all day on Tuesday, at least where I live. No snow, no rain - steady sleet. All day. Sleet, sleet, and more sleet. Inches and inches of sleet until it looked like snow. But it wasn't snow; it was piles and piles of ice pellets. Big-ass, slushy, whomping-heavy sleet. Vehicles everywhere became cement-like blocks of frozen slushy muck, each car like an ice cube for Goliath.I think they plowed. Once. I believe this is true because the end of my driveway suddenly and inexplicably became a giant igloo of razor-sharp, six-inch tall ice mountains with enough credibility to pop car tires. However, the plows never came back.
Never. EVER. Not to my street; not to any street. Now, every street around town is a frozen mess of ice doodoo.
Tonight, for example, after dodging a giant chunk of ice the size of Baby Huey that flies off the SUV in front of us, my son discovers that he is a Master of Defensive Highway Driving. We also discover that every side road intersection is covered with ice obstacles. The conundrum of the evening becomes, "Do I drive across the center lane and hope I don't kill anyone, or do I drive onto the Frozen Patch of Death to avoid smearing the idiot jogger who is out on the ice in the street after dark in black gear?"
I say, "The jogger is worth ten points. Hit him!"
Alas, Master of Defensive Highway Driving is now also Master of Defensive Back Road Driving. The jogger lives to run in the street and risk death for yet another day. Personally, I never even see him. He'd be a hood ornament in running gear by now if I were driving.
Wait. Wait a sec. He actually FOUND someone PLOWING during the storm? Must've been some dumbass who didn't get the memo: This is Wussyville. It's winter. Prepare to duck and cover.
