The one productive thing I did yesterday in the midst of watching the Bengals get embarrassingly trounced at home was to prep the garage for winter. See, I don’t park the ole Middle-Aged Man Sedan in the garage during the temperate months because there’s bikes and sportsing gear and swimming accessories, and, well, a vast array of stuff that needs the space.
But now that we’re on the backside of our annual cursory week of autumn and the temps have matched the stock market’s dive, morning often comes with a side dish of scrapping ice off windows like the worst breakfast addition ever. Accordingly, today’s high of 46 F is apparently going to be the balmiest of the week and this evening a chill rain began falling lazily as the great prophet, Axel of the Rose, foretold in the great year of my Commencing, 1991.
Anyway, now that the Sedan is getting nightly garage time and my kids have started hoping that every forecast of precipitation comes with mention of the S-word, I was hard pressed to come up with a reason NOT to wear these socks today, which feature what I assume are canal boats in Venice. Yeah, maybe I don’t know what the weather is actually like in Venice this week (because I’m too lazy to ask an app to tell me), but I’m perfectly content to assume it pretty much always looks like it did in Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade.
They may have had rats to contend with, but I don’t remember Indy ever scrapping ice off the windshield at 7 AM.
Puddintopia 