You buried in snow: I’m sorry. I know how you feel. Winter is not reading poetry at the fireplace under a blanket made of chenille and angel wings. It’s carving a peephole with your ice scraper with the vague hope that you get to work in one piece. It’s cursing the 4AM news ticker that doesn’t report your school delay because your school bus is an all-terrain/weather vehicle manned by an unwavering dragon handler. Winter is constant layer placement and removal, snotsicles, black ice, phantom slush puddles and promises to migrate south before next winter. It’s no picnic.
I don’t have to do that anymore. Circumstances and a determined Puerto Rican mother landed me back in south Florida, and while I do entertain romantic reveries of after-snowfall evening strolls, White Mocha lattes and appropriately temperatured trick or treating…I have to be thankful for what we’ve got. That you don’t. Sorry.
I took this picture a few weeks ago. Right now I’m writing with bare feet and arms and all the windows open. My babies could or could not go out with pants on–it’s a matter of style, not survival. And it’s JANUARY.
I often long for the family-centric, charmingly architected suburbs of the midwest. Also, having lived there awarded me appreciative media viewing–like, when I watch movies or sitcoms about midwestern towns (read: almost every movie) I totally get it. I get the shivering parents in the football stands, the unbearably hot senior in corduroys, plotting frenemies in puff jackets, community obsessions and neighborhood gossip.
But guess what? I could go to the beach. Right now. And I wouldn’t even need a coat.
So, a mojito cheers to my fellow southerners. Live it up before the rest of the country figures sh*t out.