Friday, February 22, 2008

Old Man Winter Can't Make Up His Mind

We're having another ice storm again. All the local schools were dismissed before noon today, and there's no school tomorrow. I hope my one remaining weeping willow tree can stand up to the icy onslaught. Its brother/sister/partner/roommate/neighbor/pick one willow went down in the ice storm we had LAST week.

This really is the weirdest winter in my long, long, long, long memory. One day we're having a blizzard. Then it's in the seventies. Then we have a wind advisory. Then it's in the sixties. Then we have an ice storm. Then it's in the seventies again. Then we have more wind advisories. Then it's in the teens, but the sun is shining brightly. Then we have rain, pouring torrents of rain. Then it's in the twenties. Then it's in the sixties again. And today, another ice storm.

I do like to hear the crackling pellets of ice hitting the house, though. Especially when I don't have to go out into the cold.

I'm not too worried. It's freezing cold and we're being pelted with ice and the roads are like mirrors, but by Saturday it will probably be in the seventies again.

Belle and Zappa: Mommy says you don't have to go to school or work tomorrow. Do you hear me, children? Stay home. Tell the boss Mommy SAID.

My apple tree and flowering shrubs have tried to bud several times since Christmas. The ground alternates between being frozen solid and being so soft and swampy, the van's tires sank about six inches and I almost didn't make it out of there. (I drive across the yard to the deck in the back of the house and dump off the groceries so I don't have to lug them up the stairs.)

That little golden kitten that hangs out on my deck is looking wistfully through the French doors again, but she won't come in. She looked so cold and bedraggled tonight. I have three cats and I don't want or need another one but on a night like this, I'd let her sleep inside with my girls, if she'd come inside. I hope she's all right tonight.

Jack Frost is dancing on my roof. He don't gots no rhythm.

The poor crocuses must be really confused.

Mamacita, Scheiss Weekly