It’s not you. It’s me. Scratch that, it’s all you. You have burned me one too many times and I am over you. Don’t try to woo me with your unique artsy fartsy snowflakes. My head won’t be turned by sunlight glistening on frozen ponds. I am onto your wily ways. Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice…uh, never mind – look what happened to the last shmuck who tried that line.
Now begone I say. Crawl back to the frigid cavern from whence you crept and torture us no more. FYI – nasal decongestant spray is potent stuff.
A few weeks ago I waxed poetic about the beauty of living with four seasons. Hogwash, the lot of it. Give me a stretch of white sand with a parasol, a good book and my kids frolicking in the surf as D and I gaze adoringly at each other and I’ll recant anything good I ever said about winter.
And while I’m at it – bah, humbug.
Bou headed out to the local slopes at the end of December for his first go at snowboarding this season. Last winter we bought him the necessary equipment, put him in classes and he discovered that hockey wasn’t the only game in town during our long, Canadian winters. It’ll never become his great love, but it’s something to enjoy with friends. All it took was one fluke of a slip and BOOM, the hockey season is sidelined for 5-6 weeks as he rocks a neon green cast on his arm. A double break – thankfully not involving growth plates – is not conducive to stick handling and checking.
Strike 1 against winter.
9.5 hours in the emergency room waiting for someone (anyone) to look at my broken-armed son, which even I could tell didn’t look normal, and cursing people who were taking up space with their narcotics-booze benders as I reminded myself that at least I wouldn’t have to sell a kidney to pay for his health care, all the while inhaling other people’s plagues, with no book to read, a phone that died after the first 2 hours and the results >>> We had to go back to see a fracture specialist 3 days later when they finally put a cast on Bou. I know what the result of a bad bender looks and sounds like – it ain’t pretty – and so does my son – chalk this up as a valuable life lesson and potential deterrent. I’m now fighting a war against the germs freely shared that night. He’s grumpy. I’m grumpy. Run on sentences have taken over my brain.
Strike 2 against winter.
My sweet, goofy pup went bounding out the back door today to do her job and evict yet another zombie squirrel from our backyard and BOOM, fluke slip on a patch of ice and she broke her back ankle. The bastard squirrels were cackling in glee and throwing shrapnel at her as she did the 3-legged hobble back to the house. D brought her to the vet where she quietly submitted to being prodded and x-rayed and the diagnosis came back with this:
- No walks. All business to be done close to home and with minimal movement.
- No running around. Has he met my dog?
- No chasing squirrels. The evildoers are having a party as we speak.
For 4 weeks. Bou and Juno are broken and it’s all winter’s fault.
Strike 3 against winter.
And now, to top it off, there’s no chocolate in the house.
Strike 4 against winter. I’m moving to Fiji.