Winter Makes Me Swear

tropical snowmanWinter makes me swear. That’s your fair-warning not to read any further if foul language offends you.

As I stepped out of the car at the Costco parking lot tonight, my delicately booted feet slipped in the three inches of slush we’ve been living with all winter. Ladylike as always, I muttered a not-so-quiet, “Oh for fuck sake,” as I slammed the door shut and turned my face to the blowing, wet snow.

I sloshed my way through the parking lot, and managed to wrestle the giant cart through the muck as if I were trying to convince a metal walrus-on-wheels to roll back into the ocean. Just through the doors, the hurricane-strength blast from the overhead heater took my breath away, fucked up my already snow-soaked coif, as some short dude in a toque bumped my cart.

The older I get the more I hate winter, and yes, I did mean to say ‘hate’.

‘Hate’,  doesn’t even begin to describe how I feel when my bones ache so intensely with cold, that the only way to find any relief is to strip down and plunk my ladylicious body into a bathtub full of steaming hot water. Candlelight, wine and Leonard Cohen’s music also aid in taking the edge off.

Well my friends are gone and my hair is grey
I ache in the places where I used to play
And I’m crazy for love but I’m not coming on

~Tower of Song by Leonard Cohen~

The problem is that when it’s not fuck-freezing cold, is that it’s snowing like Rudolph’s daydream. You see, although I warm up in a shoulder-deep soak, I cannot strip down and hold meetings from the Jacuzzi in my office. Yes, there’s a Jacuzzi at the office. Don’t ask, and trust me, nobody at work wants to see anyone else a la mode.

Besides being cold, snow is a colossal pain in the ass. The boots, the long coats, scarves, gloves and other paraphernalia are just what my Sifu might call an opportunity to practice patience.

Trying to get out of that crap so you don’t build up a pro-basketball player quantity of sweat when you do finally get inside, is like the world’s tallest man having a panic attack inside a mini-pad wrapper. It’s not pretty.

Speaking of pretty, pretty boots make Mother Nature double over with laughter. Every time I try to sex-up my winter footwear, I hear her cackle, “You stunned twit! Mwah-ha-ha!” Mother nature sounds a lot like Vincent Price.

Winter  weather requires traction that makes G.I. Joe look like a delicate flower. You not only have to lug around heavy mukluks that, despite their industrial strength tread, still don’t grip the fucking ice and snow, you have to also carry your shoes with you too!

….and Static Guard because it’s so cold everything is electrically charged and your skirt sticks to your ass all day, and lipbalm, and lock de-icer, and ALL of your pants and skirts have salt stains from the salty, slushy crap your butch-boots kick up as you tip-toe from A to B trying your hardest not to fall and bounce your snow-shower soaked hair off of whatever debris lives under the snow and ice, all the while thinking (sometimes out loud), “Fuck you winter, and the jet-stream you blew in on!”

Now you can say that I’ve grown bitter but of this you may be sure

And there’s a mighty judgment coming, but I may be wrong

Ah, but this year there is a judgment coming. It’s  otherwise known as a sun-holiday. Knock on wood and God-willing (now that’s pushing it for an agnostic-Buddhist-feminist), a week from now I will be sufficiently unwound with gin and tonics while sweating my pudge off in the Caribbean.

Until then, I will be the middle-aged woman traipsing through parking lots, perfectly annunciating the F-word, using it in every possible way to describe the disastrous fucking mess we call winter.

Now I bid you farewell, I don’t know when I’ll be back
They’re moving us tomorrow to that tower down the track
But you’ll be hearing from me baby, long after I’m gone
I’ll be speaking to you sweetly
From a window in the Tower of Song

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