When I woke up this morning and saw no snow on the ground, despite the local weatherman's prediction, I felt almost joyous. And then I heard the word: Phil says there will be six more weeks of winter.
Of course, I probably didn't need Punxsutawney Phil to tell me that. After all, storm after storm after storm should have clued me into the fact that Spring doesn't want to come early this year. I suppose she's having the time of her life on her Caribbean vacation and is in no hurry to leave her well-hung cabana boy for the dry desert wasteland that is Reno. Can't say I blame her.
But boy oh boy, am I ready for Spring. I want her to come...to bring with her warmer weather, bright sunshine and happy little daffodils. I'm so sick of the cold and the snow and the ice and the snow and the below freezing weather, and of course the snow.
I want to put away my warm woolen mittens and Harry Potter scarf. I want to pack away my snow boots and break out my gardening tools. But nooooo, Phil says I have to wait six more weeks for that to happen.
I'd cry, only my tear ducts have frozen. Guess I'll just sit in front of the heater with a cup of hot chamomile tea, and just be happy that at least LOST is back on TV. Perhaps the survivors of Oceanic Flight 815 will help keep me warm while I begin my six week countdown to spring.