Rest assured, in one week I'll be back to saying: I'm so proud to be a Vermonter. There's no place I'd rather live. How did I ever live without dirt roads and goats?
But there's this one time of year where I turn into Bitter Southern Megan and rail against the late snow. I'm pretty much used to it - God, sometimes I even like being cold now (WHAT?!) - but when we first moved here I used to feel like an exotic species, like some capuchin monkey released in the Vermont wild. (Digression: Didn't the Biebs just get in trouble for taking a capuchin monkey into Europe? Just wait until they both reach sexual maturity. Ask Bubbles about how that went.)
So, I'm remembering that time that I took Bo to my hometown - Rocky Mount, NC - and made him eat grits out of a styrofoam cup at Central Cafe downtown (total time warp, that place). Picture the scene: Quaker Vermonter. Ancient ladies talking potato salad recipes in the booth next door. Waitress calling you Honey. Instant coffee. More starchy white stuff than you know what to do with.
Still not ready to call it even.