I need a get-out-of-winter-free card. It’s 12:27:20…21..25…39 am where I am right now, and I have to tell you I am feeling bummed. Big B bummed.

I want to be somewhere where the clime actually requires you to shave your legs, get a pedicure, slap some SPF 40 on, maybe some bronze toner. Somewhere where wearing a little, flirty skirt wouldn’t cause hypothermia and frostbite, possibly followed by amputation.

I’d like to be somewhere where sweatpants and fleece-lined underwear are banned by municipal act, or city bylaw, or federal decree, or Magneto. I can pretty much wear the same thing to bed that I wear in the waking hours of every day — sweats and man socks. Call the fashion police.

The only reason I bother to blow dry my hair is so icicles won’t form on it the minute I open the front door. Other than that, what’s the point? It’s all being smooshed into some knit wonder that has me asking, “What were they thinking?” every time I don the toque or skull cap. Better yet — the balaclava.  Just hand me something furry with ear flaps and be done with it.

My longest, warmest, ugliest winter coat makes me look like a tall, black fire hydrant and, believe me, I’m wearing my longest, warmest, ugliest winter coat.

There is a shovel permanently parked by the side door. I’m running out of places to put the fluffy white stuff. My current routine is to tog-up, complete with thick leather gloves Mr. G, honey bought for me that make my fingers look like brats plumping for an Oktoberfest. This takes a good ten minutes. While I do this, I’m busy getting Gracie Golden Pup all excited about going outside. Not that I need to work at that. She’s a winter pup — a true dog of the Great White North. When she’s all excited — and I’m not — I slide open the door and let the snow rush in while I stumble out, as GGP streaks around the side of the house, locomoting for all she’s worth, in mad pursuit of freedom and her booga ball. That’s what I call it. It’s about the size of a musk melon with a handle on it and is made of industrial strength rubber. It’s the only ball she can’t destroy in under 15 minutes.

I dig to the gate in one direction and stand and throw the booga ball over and over and over again, and watch Golden Pup make a nice footpath running back and forth, back and forth, back and forth to get it thrown again. No moss growing on me. I clear the steps and a few inches of the patio while she is digging snow trenches with her nose and head, rolling on her back, and barking at snow ghosts.

I’m sorry to have to admit that Gracie Golden Pup has inherited my athletic gene. Yes. She does what I did throughout grade school, junior high and high school — okay, maybe even into my twenties. When the ball comes sailing through the air, she runs and runs, head up, watching, watching, watching as the ball descends and smacks her in the head, and then goes for the catch. The athletic gene does not fall far from the tree. The difference is that GGP has the skull of a golden retriever — I do not.

The paths are getting narrower. The fence is getting shorter. The window wells are filled. The squirrels are getting all Rambo’d-up, and I am reduced to snow-ranting at my blog.

I can tell February is just around the corner. Somebody bring me an umbrella drink.

That is all. The end.

Elen

p.s. Conn’s being a bit of a Rambo, too. I’m missing Sven already.