I ended up breaking my arm because my husband, Jason, refused to shovel the snow.
Not figuratively. Literally.
The night before his birthday weekend, I stood at our front door, staring down at the porch steps as a thin layer of ice began to form.
“Jason,” I said, “it’s starting to freeze out there. Can you please shovel and put down salt before we go to bed? I don’t want to slip.”
He didn’t even glance up from his phone.
