The Iceman Cometh

This is a picture of our "backyard", as we've dubbed the pretty piece of wooded property that buttresses one side of our condo building, and the scene we woke up to this morning. Yes. The dreaded "S" word: shit. I mean snow. Same difference, really, when I think of the months of craptastic weather and salt and dirt all over the roads, not to mention freezing my arse off for no good reason, stupid northern latitude.

Man, it doesn't do this crap in Tennessee. (Well, yes, it does, but then it goes away after a day or so of everybody closing down the entire city, after first having mobbed and cleared the shelves of the local Kroger because the apocalypse is nigh and all).

Any way, I'm babbling. Around this time I become highly nostalgic for my old haunts and start dreaming regularly about Nashville. (Last night I didn't dream about Nashville at all, but had an equally pleasant dream about chatting with several New College professors. I clearly miss the days when life didn't involve the legal documentation of the amount, color and consistency of a patient's sputum).

I'm writing this while watching the dog stare intently at the radiator, as if locked within are miraculous doggie treasures to behold. Oops. Now he's unwisely gotten too close to the radiator and presumably burned his nose, as he's taken off at an undignified trot and is now sitting in front of me, whining to go outside. Where it's cold and dark. Miserable damn weather. It's like living in Gotham City for five months out of the year.