The Winter Of My Discontent

Okay. Who am I fooling? NOBODY! My discontent knows no bounds!

I have almost given up hope for a snow day. The eternal optimist inside me, trying desperately to get out, says we still have five weeks left of official winter. But really. A season is thirteen weeks long. We have passed the halfway point. Every day, we are inching closer and closer to that dadblasted SPRING. The season of daffodils and bunnies and raindrops and gale force freakin' winds.

Spring is my least favorite season. It's almost tied with summer, whose only redeeming quality is the hour just after sunset, when the ground cools off and humidity settles down to become morning dew, and the lightning bugs start blinkin', just begging for their tail-lights to be ripped off by children and stuck on a ring finger as a neon jewel. When, if you live in town, you hear the tune of the ice cream wagon. When athletic kids are on the baseball fields, compiling stats for mvp, or playing in an everyone's a winner league, looking forward to an equal amount of at-bats, a snow cone after the game, and a trophy at the end of the season.

Now I sit in my Mansion, faithfully watching the five o'clock, six o'clock, nine o'clock, and ten o'clock weather reports. On three different channels. Just when one gives me hope, the other two dash them like an heirloom Christmas bulb in the hands of a butter(literally)fingered toddler. NO SNOW FOR YOU! Rain, they say. Rain. The lesser, cinnamon, babka of the precipitation world.

My hopes, once as high as an elephant's eye, or at least as high as the corn in Oklahoma, are now circling the drain of despair. How soon the worm has turned. It seems like only yesterday that Christmas break had just begun. That we were only a few days into winter when a glorious eight inches of snow magically appeared overnight. The meteorologists scratched their empty heads. This was uncalled for. A dusting, they had prognosticated.

I want my eight inches.