I’m writing, snarling at the sky and wondering if I have enough food in the house to be snowed in, probably more or less like all of you. That I could have written the exact same post this week two weeks ago, is a Groundhog’s Day-esqe oddity. However, I’m struck by the idea that I hate the weather messes precisely because they’ve become so repetitive, when what I think I really want is to get back to my normal repetitive state. Why, if you call it “routine” is it a good thing, and if you call it “repetitive” is it bad? Becuase really it’s all just the same. It’s February. It will snow. Probably on Thursday. Write it on the calendar and get over it. But for some reason it’s all tied back to one stupid, terrified Groundhog and this absurd idea that there is even the remotest possibility that spring has any hope of being “just around the corner.” Six more weeks of winter is optimistic even in non-El Niño years, right? Winter is going to suck regardless, right?

(Right.)

(Despite this backhanded attempt at reason, I not want another snowstorm, especially one with wind. I do not like wind.)

Maybe we should all move to Florida.

In other news:

I have finally replaced my poor, sad teacup. I have dropped my new one four times already and I can assure you that it is absolutely unbreakable. I hate it.

For the moment, I have lost my cell phone. I have actually been all around the world (well, a couple of New Jersey counties) without it. I’m sure it will show up again soon in a pocket or something.

I am still avoiding finishing my novel by writing more short stories. The story I’m writing now is really good. It will never, however, resemble a novel.

One of my daughters told me I could make a book out of Lego. I assured her that this was not possible. She disagreed. We went to school and she showed me a picture of a pageless Lego book entitled “Moby Brick.” I stand corrected, sort of.

And on we go. Writing, snarling at the sky and wondering if I have enough food in the house.

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