This is it. The final stretch. Only days before Easter. And still, it snows.

I know I've said it before, but I live in Georgia. It's supposed to be warm in Georgia. Hot even. I remember reading all about it when I was a kid, living in the frozen tundra of upstate New York, trudging through snow nearly up to my waist. Georgia has short winters, long summers, lazy days filled with lemonade and sweet tea...mint juleps and grits. Not snow in late March. Not frozen temperatures just days before Easter.

I was wrong. The Farmer's Almanac was wrong. It's freaking cold here, and I'm seriously thinking about getting a refund. Not that I love the hot summers...I don't. I long for cool breezes from June through September, but right now, I'd take a heatwave and be thankful for it, if only to avoid sleeping in wool socks and my cashmere scarf for one night.

Now, I'd like blame the groundhog and his misguided predictions, but as I was recently reminded, he's merely a captive prophet. (Ray Plasse, 2013) He likely wants no part in this circus he's forced to perform in each year. So if not the groundhog, who do I blame? The local weather man? No, he simply reports the weather, he doesn't predict it. Can I blame the pigs? I'd really like to find something new to blame the pigs for, but alas...pigs have no bearing on the weather. So where does that leave me? Right here, freezing my ass off in my 90-year-old farmhouse with crappy wiring, no insulation, and leaky windows...praying for spring to arrive with a vengeance. But my prayers have yet to be answered.

Now I'm left with only one wisp of a hope. The Easter Bunny. He brings joy, pastel colors, chocolate, and hopefully, this year, he'll bring warm weather. Because seriously, I was so cold yesterday, I forgot to blog. And that just can't happen. Hey, maybe if I'm lucky, Peter Rabbit will bring me a few packages of Thin Mints when he comes. Can't hurt to ask, right?

Until the next time...I'll be waiting for a basket filled with sunshine.

Easter.

As a young girl I used to get so excited for the arrival of Easter. It always meant a new dress and a pretty bonnet for church. (And of course, a basket of candy from the “giant bunny”.) And when my kids were growing up, I was torn between that same nostalgic excitement, and something akin to horror as roamed the apocalyptic scene at the local Walmart on the night before Easter, fighting old ladies in wheelchairs for the last few chocolate bunnies and peanut butter eggs in the entire store. This because I’d either completely forgotten about Easter until then, or already eaten the previously purchased candy. And the scene was a cross between a Mad Max movie and the original Willie Wonka and the chocolate factory.

Mad Max and the chocolate apocalypse.

Of all the things I miss…that isn’t one of them. So as sad as I was to realize this would be the first year I failed to do Easter baskets for the kids (most of which are actually adults who don’t really care if I buy them candy) I was secretly delighted I would be spared a trip to Walmart on the Saturday before Easter.

Imagine my horror as I somehow managed to find myself exactly there…Walmart! At ten o’clock at night. On the night before Easter. With all the other zombies trolling for chocolate bunnies and peanut butter eggs.

But I wasn’t shopping for candy. I was shopping for a lightbulb.

Let’s rewind. Mike and I rolled out of bed (reluctantly) at seven this morning. It was garage sale day, and we were thrilled to be getting rid of our junk…I mean stuff…for some extra cash. It was a good morning…we sold a lot. We even met the neighbors.

This is how I know were are really and truly living in the country.

I actually witnessed…as in heard with my own ears…a grown man say the word do-dong. You might remember I wrote about a dongle some time back, and as funny as the word dongle sounded, it wasn’t what you thought it was. Well, this time it was exactly what I thought it was. The context is somewhat important. My husband was pulling a vine from under the porch when the neighbor (a man in his late fifties to early sixties) said (and I’ll write this out phonetically because it’s way funnier that way) “That thar is posen (not poison…posen) ahvy. You don’t want that. And ya best not touch yer do-dong before you wash yer hands.”

Yep, you heard (err…read) that right. “Ya best not touch yer do-dong…” Well, I agreed wholeheartedly. You do not want posen ahvy (or poison ivy for that matter) on your do-dong. I don’t have a do-dong myself, but if I did, I’m certain I wouldn’t want poison ivy on it.

Funny accents aside, he’s a sweet man, my neighbor. And oh so thoughtful, thinking about my husband’s do-dong like that. Not many men are secure enough in their manhood to mention such things outloud.

So, I guess you’re wondering what drove me to Walmart (and a twenty minute drive to reach said Walmart, by the way) for a lightbulb, on the night before Easter? Well…with our garage sale proceeds, we went to the local feed store and bought eight baby chickens. We needed a lightbulb to keep them warm at night. And they seem to be toasty warm, indeed. Oh, and in case you’re wondering…my husband’s errr do-dong seems to be just fine too.

Until the next time…I’ll be listening to the baby chickens peep all night long.