sunday night nor'easter

Sunday night — after an especially good pub meal of fish and chips, dessert-posing-as-appetizer pumpkin fritters, and raspberry-flavored French beer — Ryan, Matt, Laura and I made our way home. Ryan was busy grumbling about how much he hates winter in Boston, and I was busy rambling about how the snow flurries, when you looked up at the street lights, were like handfuls of glitter falling from the sky. Typical. But if I had to shovel it five months a year, I might not find it quite so magical either.

Living up to its namesake, March arrived roaring. We woke up Monday morning to this — the view from Ryan's third-story Brookline brownstone.

























We ventured out for pizza — me in my sneakers, stepping carefully — and a few Trader Joe's essentials. I kept thinking my flight home would get canceled. I was wrong.

Yesterday, back in Atlanta, it was a sunny thirty seven degrees. A tiny bit of snow remains in the front yard, guarded by the Welcome Duck.