When I was little all I wanted was snow. I was born in Texas. All Christmas songs were about snow. There’s that one, “Walking in a winter wonderland.” Lies. Lies. Lies. No one tells you the truth. It’s not a wonderland. It’s cold. It’s wet. When they plow they don’t magically remove the snow, they push it on top of the car that your husband just shoveled. So he shovels it again, you run to the store for rations and the punk ass kid up the road throws your parking space saver on the sidewalk and helps himself to your spot. He’s lucky Boo didn’t help himself to the dozen eggs in our fridge. He definitely thought about it. And now, instead of these big beautiful snow globe snow flakes it’s hammering frozen rain. I don’t know what this means. But I can tell you this. The already insane, as in it’s likely they qualify for commitment, Boston drivers will take to their cars like sleds and use the streets as their hills gleefully plowing over anyone in their way as they drive home. Oh joy. What a freaking wonderland. I am just thankful I don’t live in Canada, or Russia.