Even the Ice Queen, Did the Freeze Displease

I never understood seasonal depression. Well, not in the common sense anyway. I used to get serious seasonal depression in the summer, because as you can probably imagine, there's not much worse than six straight days of snow and grey clouds, except 60 straight days of heat in the 100-110 degree range. Other people's 'seasonal depression' (i.e., winter blues) would have been welcomed with open arms. I would much rather have frozen to death than burned to death.

The karmic puppetmasters should kindly stop rubbing it in, okay? I GET IT.

I never understood the bad rep snow had, and how people in the north (aka: above Texas) could cry and moan about it. To us, snow was kind of like the Loch ness monster... we knew what it was, had fantastical delusions of what it would be like, and heard all the stories, but never experienced it ourselves. What we thought was snow, I have since learned is nothing more than a mixture of sleet, frozen rain and the occasional flurry; much in the same way that a floating log and a peculiar shadow get mistaken for our aforementioned monster.

It just goes to show that you should be careful what you wish for, as here is another classic example of how my life takes every available opportunity to stretch the capacity of my head to accomodate a case of foot-in-mouth.

When I talk to people back home, they're all very enthusiastic about my inconveniences. "Oh send it our way!" they say, in that sickeningly syrupy voice, as if I am just overreacting to the ten foot snow bank in my own driveway that my car got stuck in today. "I wish it would snow here... I would love that," in reference to any mention of weeks of nonstop snow, and the numerous sidewalks covered in ice - the same ice, I might add, that we have busted our butts on over a hundred times in the past two weeks; the same ice that is buried under the same salt that has turned our cars into what might as well be motorized salt licks.

SHUT UP.

Ironically, I tell that to the same people up here who deny, deny, and deny that they would ever have a problem with 110-degree weather. It's the same story: "I would love it!" Maybe after the heat stroke set in and you've become delusional, perhaps. Just be careful for what you wish for, because someday, when the world gets tired of dispensing irony in my life, it'll pluck you from your roots and drop you in some desert in Arizona.

Then talk to me about your natural, perpetual tan.

Eventually, I plan on relocating somewhere where there is a happy medium between temperatures so cold that my spit freezes, and temperatures so hot that it boils any moisture in my mouth. I don't know if such a place exists. In the south, the local news features quirky segments on how long it will take to boil an egg on the sidewalk, or bake cookies on the front console of your car - both of which are very possible in August. Here, the news anchors have demonstrated how you can fling water from a cup and it will freeze into little pieces before hitting the ground. How convenient would it be if the two locations were within seconds of each other? Because considering my own luck at cooking, that ice on command would be rather handy after I burned myself on the aforementioned cookie. Unfortunately, the universe has not given us the pleasure of such ingenious geography.

Here's a list of things I have ruined this winter (so far):
- 2 CDs
- a CD case
- a brand new Cosmopolitan magazine
- my graduation cap
- my patella

With the exception of number 5, all were ruined in a desperate attempt to de-ice my windshield after I misplaced my ice scraper, which is probably buried under the snow somewhere. As for my kneecap, I wish I could say that I slipped on the ice outside and landed on a sidewalk, but it actually happened on my very own, indoor staircase leading to my bedroom. It was, however, due to ice I tracked in on the bottom of my feet. That's the last time I'll wear sweater clogs outside even just to get the mail.

I have also learned that the trunk of a car is not insulated enough to keep water bottles from freezing and occasionally, bursting. Which is why I lugged a 24-bottle case of Dasani upstairs today. Actually, it was a 23-count case at that point. And I would like to warn the rest of drivers who are like me, and pride themselves on being ready for anything including having packages of wet wipes and all-surface cleansers in the side doors of their car. They all freeze, therefore rendering the glass cleaning wipes pointless. What do you get when you smear a handy-wipe frozen in ice on an already frozen surface? An idiot.

Other signs I've had enough of winter? The pharmacist at Rite Aide knows my name, as he's accommodated the multiple milligram increases for about three of my prescriptions - in a month. Forget having to specify, "That's with a K." I don't even have to open my mouth.

I can't resist whining about the catastrophe that was trying to get there in the first place, which involves me getting stuck in my own driveway. For 35 minutes, the car wouldn't budge. It's not as if there was a ton of built up snow out there, as it had been what I thought was sufficiently flattened by in and out traffic. So it really had no explainable reason to be stubborn with me, but it was. And I'm not great with cars outside of driving them, washing them, glancing at the sticker that marks my last oil change, and filling the tank. So for me, expecting me to get my car unstuck from an inch of snow is about as fruitless as asking me to cook anything other than a pot of boiled water. Basically, it's stupid. Did I mention the drop off over a hillside about five feet from my back driveway? Fortunately, I think my car has become rather receptive to my tone over the past few years and realized it ought to not be cantankerous with me this time. Not if it wanted to avoid being traded in, anyway, because I would have done that just out of spite for the car, simply from being pissed.

It's all just putting me in a really foul mood. I've had it with the weather. I'm going to play around on Google to research the possibilities of building a light box out of a Steve Madden shoebox, a box of matchsticks, and rubbing alcohol. To anyone injured, singed, or blinded in the construction of my light box, I offer my sincerest apologies. But consider it a foreshadowing of an impending bonfire if it doesn't stop snowing within a week.

So to conclude in a few words, may the following be damned: The weather, my wet socks, the massacre that is my Cosmopolitan, and the Swiss Alps that have formed behind my driveway. And whatever large animal knocks over our trash cans, but that's for an entirely different saga. Where in the world (literally) is this global warming hype we've been hearing all about? I know the slow broiling of our planet is not an issue to make light of, with us being the cornea in God's version of Lasik thermokeratoplasty, and all. But in case Al Gore should ever resort to guerilla-like tactics to promote his campaign on the global warming matter, I volunteer my driveway for the event.