I love my home. I have a huge backyard, I'm one mile from a beach in either direction. I have lots of room to "play" and a gourmet kitchen. So, yea, there ain't a whole lot to complain about here.
Of course, it is a White Trash Hood.
I don't actually live on a road. It's more like a cul de sac where the road is a giant, gravel parking lot. None of the houses have a front yard. And at any given time there are no fewer than two cars on concrete blocks, in the process of being repaired.
Oh, did I mention, I live next door to a gas station/convenience store?
(Non-sequitor. Recently, when I cajoled GoodBuddy, who was whining about running out of beer. "Quitcherbitchin. I live next to a Packie." At which, he began laughing hysterically. "That's my little optimistic flower. You don't live next to a gas station. You live next to a Packie. Glass half full!")
But yesterday, I witnessed the pinnacle, the epitome, the piece de la resistance of white trashiness.
Within the foot of snow that blanketed Gloucester, not only was our parking lot/street completely plowed. There was a path snow blown between us and the Packie. Because, God Forbid!, we walk the 10 extra feet to the end of the road to reach the store. No way. We gotta cut across the garden separating the two properties. Our beer could get warm if we took the long way around!