Wednesday, January 23, 2013

Cold Sore

There’s a sign I usually hang outside our front door once we put away our shorts and tank tops during the week of Thanksgiving.  It reads, “I Love Winter.” 
I’m throwing it in the trash.
I live in the Valley of the Sun - spitting distance from Phoenix, Arizona - where the town logo includes a drawing of the mythical phoenix rising up out of ashes.  Those ashes were the cremated remains of snow birds who stayed too long.  This.State.Is.Hot.  Most of the time.  And most of the year, I whine like a two-year-old about how much I hate the heat and the sun and try to remember why we moved here. I watch the weather report like a lovesick teenager, anxiously looking for the arrival of the next cold front.
But not anymore. 
This year I met the alter ego of Arizona heat. In the coldest winter we've had since probably the Ice Age, I got annihilated by an arctic blast. Decimated by a December virus. Jacked up by January jerms. And my poor husband.  Don’t get me started.  Too late—you got me started.  His cold became a cough that registered 7.5 on the Richter Scale.  And last week that earth-shattering hacking created a lung injury that put him on lockdown at home for a week.
I feel so betrayed.  Summer never treated us this way.
So sayonara, Winter.  See ya later, snowfalls. Ciao chill.  You better be out of town by sundown, cuz you’re no friend of mine. You froze my floors, terrorized my toes, and overworked my heater. I don’t believe in Winter Wonderlands anymore. 

From now on, if it ain’t eighty I’m headin’ to Haiti.
Well.  It rhymed. 

Photo courtesy of bunnygoth's photostream at

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