A Note to the Wicked Stepmother

Dear Mother Nature,

Grace here. Coffee? Tea? Appletini? Please, have a seat. We need to have a little come-to-Jesus meeting regarding your first-quarter performance. First off, it's winter, which means we're stuck inside, chowing Chunky Soup like it's actually people food, and trying to force the cat to play heating pad on our Skinsicle toes. Second, I believe they make effective medications for your particular breed of schizophrenia, and Wal-Mart has both $4 prescriptions AND Milano cookies, so go get you some bottled sanity and happiness and quit this "four seasons in one month" business. Sixty-five degrees is not appropriate for January. Put your pants back on.

Third, didn't anyone ever teach you that it's mean to toy with the emotions of small children? I imagine this was a lesson they tried to instill in you around about Grade 3, along with "Build The Perfect Storm in 1,2,3" and "Religion and Philosophy: A Study of Al Gore." I just can't take your tricks any more, you meteorological minx. This morning you made my hopes soar like those ratty birds that keep crapping on my car, and then YOU MADE ME GO TO WORK.

As I was finishing up my exhaustive morning preparatory routine of putting on clothes that almost match, I heard the fizz of sleefrow (a delicious sleet-freezing-rain-snow cocktail also available shaken with Bacardi) falling on my windowsill, and my heart began to sing the praises of inclement weather. Surely, I thought, this will continue for hours, accumulate into a street-hazard Slurpee, and let me pretend that for my own safety, I must stay home and stalk people I lost track of from high school on Facebook. I glided into the office, glowingly confident that we would close within minutes, and fully prepared to check the news sites for the latest orphans of Brangelina until that magical moment.

Then, what did you do? You snuggled us close and warmed up to a balmy thirty-three degrees, just enough to thaw my hopes and dreams and make me stay at the office and read the Brangelina chronicles all awful day. We ended up with the Michelob Ultra of inclement weather, when I had really been craving a Guinness (and accompanying widget).

So Mom Earth, consider yourself on notice. If you’re gonna play, then bring your A game…or I’ll stop recycling.

Thanks for puppies,

Grace

P.S.: The Equator makes your ass look fat.