Thursday, February 11, 2016

Dear Winter, Go to Hell. xoxo, Me.

It's 23 degrees and windy as eff outside. I'm standing at my kitchen window clutching my third cup of tea for warmth. There's a package of chicken breasts on the counter put out to thaw this morning. Eight hours ago. They're still frozen. I just heard a bumpety-thump and skid in the driveway. An arctic blast has blown the trashcan over and about twenty feet away.  I look to see if it's blocking anyones ability to drive up. It is not. Who am I kidding, I wasn't going out to move it for nothing. Peering out the window and contemplating my fourth cup of tea, I hear a tiny shrill whistle right next to my ear. I look down and realize wind is hissing through the little slits of an electric outlet. Winter hates me. Good. I hate it too.

I wouldn't make a very good pioneer woman. I've read Little House on the Prairie and Cold Mountain. I saw The Revenant. I turn into a champion, Grade A, all-conference complainer in the winter. Not proud of it, but I just can't deal. Not when my hands are blue, my shoulders perma-hunched and my nose runs like a mountain stream. Things like getting out of a warm bed are monumental feats of inner strength. From the minute Christmas is over, I go into an irritated funk of pouting. I'm a preschooler, basically -loudly sighing, throwing a tantrum or two, pretty much seeking sympathy. Expressing my utter misery isn't optional. My sanity depends on it. I'm incapable of suffering quietly. So yeah, I wouldn't last long on the prairie. The townsfolk would shoot me dead and have a party around the bonfire celebrating the blessed silence. Ding dong the witch is dead. Fine by me, at least it's warm in hell.

Nope. Not gonna.
Satan's mouthpiece