Ok, ok, ice scraping men below my window. You're being productive, so I might as well. Laundry sorted. Dishes scrubbed. Growing pile of clothes on the back of my chair hung. Bags of trash, it's time to go.
Remember the "ridiculously warm" Fuggs of my previous post? Well, turns out toasty doesn't translate to traction. They've fallen out of grace as hard as I fell on my behind.
Yes, the jaunt to the trash dumpster was a treacherous one. One minute you're dragging trash bags along behind you, minding your own business. And the next, you're flat on your face. Soaking wet. With a giant hole in your tights. I'd show you my bloody battle scar - ice is sharp, y'all - but it's scandalously close to my hindquarters.
(Hey, ice scrapers... you missed a spot).