dear easter bunny

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.​

only the shadow knows...

I woke up this morning...Groundhog's Day morning...to discover two things.

One, the groundhog didn't see his shadow, so my diet plans have gone completely out the window...again. This means I officially have six less weeks to squeeze into my favorite jeans before spring is busting out all over...or more aptly, I'll be busting out all over.

And two, the snow was coming down as if hell had indeed frozen over. So, of course, I had to wonder how these two unrelated things were, in fact, related. And I came to only one logical conclusion. Since we have six less weeks of winter this year, winter decided to pack them all into one weekend. This weekend.

But it's not the first time the groundhog failed to see his shadow. Oh, sure...it's rare. But it happened just a few years ago. How can I be so sure, you ask? Well...because I blogged about it, of course. And if you don't blog it...it didn't happen.

So for all you naysayers out there, here's the proof...a rerun from 2011...

Six Less Weeks of Winter.

If you get seven years of bad luck for breaking a mirror, what price do you pay for running over the groundhog on the same day he predicts an early spring? Should I be more concerned about six weeks of bad luck or six more weeks of winter?

From the minute I woke up this morning until the moment I sat down to write my blog, my day was a total disaster. 

Honestly, it should have been a good day.  I was due.  For starters, the groundhog—my nemesis from last year—didn’t see his shadow, and we are expecting an early spring.  This doesn’t happen very often, especially with news crews surrounding him with artificial light.  I don’t know exactly what an early spring means.  When can we expect winter to be over?  Can I please get a precise date?   

But I digress…                  

Upon discovering that winter was officially on its way out, I decided that it would be a great day to take the dog for a ride.  I needed to buy dog food (a store he can actually enter) and he loves to go with me.  I got his leash out, hooked him up, and let him drag me to the driveway.

That was as far as we got. 

Mike had forgotten to unhitch the trailer from the back of the Land Rover.  I would have put Indy in the backseat while I struggled with the trailer, but the backseat was still filled with things from moving.  I apologized to my dog and took him back to the house.  There would be no trip for him today.  In hindsight I could have used his help to move the trailer once I unhitched it. 

One sprained wrist and a partially dislocated finger later, the trailer was parked haphazardly in the grass and I was on my way to buy dog food.  Another hour after that, three hungry dogs were pushing to be the first one to eat, as I tore into the bag, careful not to hurt my already hurt hand.  Once they had eaten, I put them out in the yard—pretty standard lunchtime stuff.  I would love to say that having one of the dogs escape the yard isn’t standard, but where Joey is concerned, it is more standard than I would like.  So I hopped back into the Land Rover, armed with his favorite squeaky toy, and began my forty-five minute circle around the neighborhood. 

I was almost ready to give up when my cell phone rang.  It was a man who lived three streets over.  He had found Joey. 

Once that adventure was over I decided to do something more ordinary—dishes.

Doing the dishes would have been far more effective if the sink had drained.  As I ran the water, the sink filled.  The only problem was, I hadn’t put the plug in the drain.  I didn’t get very far washing dishes before I had to stop. 

I added the drain and the hole in the fence to the growing list of “to do” items for Mike.  It is a very long list.  He would need those extra six weeks to get it all done before spring. 

For the rest of my day, I attempted to unpack as many boxes as I could, and put as much away as I was able.  I am definitely feeling a little overwhelmed with everything that needs to be done around the house now that we have boxes and baskets of stuff everywhere.  I was happy to take a break from the unpacking when my daughter asked me to run an errand. 

It was cold and dark when I got into the Land Rover and headed out into the night. 

I was driving along minding my own business, paying attention to the road (not texting or anything,) when he ran out in front of me.  I tried to stop, but there was no time.  I hit him.  The groundhog.  On groundhog’s day. 

What are the odds? 

Actually, the odds are against it.  On closer inspection I realized that it wasn’t even a groundhog.  It was an opossum.  They don’t care if they see their shadows.  They have no effect whatsoever on spring.  But I still felt bad—poor little thing.

I am just glad today is over.  I just hope I don't wake up and have to live it all over again like Bill Murray!

Until the next time…I’ll be starting my spring diet early since winter is ending soon!

the groundhog revisited

The groundhog came out of his hole and saw his shadow again this year without any fanfare. I completely missed it. I just wasn’t paying attention. And not because I don’t value the little groundhog. In fact, I have the utmost respect for him. He goes through a lot, even if it’s only for one day a year. Since I missed his very special once-a-year day, I figured I would do something I just hate to do, I’ll reprint my homage to him from two years ago…when I had more time to contemplate the meaning of shadows and extra weeks of winter. Maybe it will serve as a reminder of the really important things in life…

Or not.

I got up this morning the way I do every morning…grudgingly. I stumbled out of bed, staggered sleepily to the shower, and completed my morning rituals quietly, and without interruption. It was a dreary morning. Light rain dripped down from a gray blanket of clouds. The sun had already come up, but it was nowhere to be seen. Despite the dismal gloomy sky, I took for granted that sunrise had come at the same time it did most every morning, I was rarely awake to see it. To me this was just another day in a long week of work. I was completely unaware that it was also Groundhog’s Day. I hadn’t saved that day on my smart phone, and if it isn’t on my smart phone…well, it must not be that important. When I finally realized what day it was—several hours later—I actually felt a little bad that I missed it, the whole extravaganza that surrounds the yearly appearance of the groundhog. And not just for the sake of the groundhog, but for sentimental reasons. Twenty years ago, this was the day my son was due to be born. (Thankfully, he was four days late because I can’t imagine what would have happened if HE had seen his shadow coming out…I don’t think I could have survived six more weeks of pregnancy.)

Then I started thinking about the groundhog again. Do we really care that much whether or not the groundhog sees his shadow? Does it still have the same relevance in our lives that it used to have? Maybe. But I would hazard a guess that the only relevance is psychological. Then again, I might take the whole ordeal more seriously if the news media didn’t trudge out to the animal’s den before the sun had even fully crested the horizon, lights and cameras in hand, to drag the poor thing out of its bed kicking and screaming. Even Paris Hilton gets more respect.

So I tried to think of myself like the groundhog. I imagined myself back in bed still asleep, as I usually am at quarter to seven in the morning, sweet dreams swirling around in my brain. Thirty or so minutes to go before the first wave of alarm clocks would go off and the only sound was the soft buzz of dogs snoring. Blissfully unaware…like our friend the groundhog. What would I do if someone came crashing into my bedroom so early, TV cameras at the ready? Provided they could plot a course through the dangerous territory known as my bedroom, a space riddled with doggy beds, loose blankets and half a dozen tennis balls, not to mention all three dogs and one ninja cat. (I have all too often gone down in that obstacle course myself.)

Still, the press is skilled at navigating treacherous terrain on a daily basis, so I will assume they survived the journey to find me, face buried in my pillow, sound asleep…and wham! Suddenly, I’m up! Eyes wild…teeth bared…hair all in a tangle. I think I might just curse them all to six more weeks of winter!

And why wouldn’t I?

Surely they deserve at least that! But because I’m so over winter, and ready to usher spring back in, I think I’d just doom them to six more weeks of whining instead. That might just be the PMS talking. I have been sadly afflicted these past few days. I don’t even know if groundhogs get PMS, but it would explain things a little bit better to know they did. What other excuse is there for cursing someone to six whole weeks of winter just for seeing one’s shadow? PMS does that to people. It’s a vicious cycle. Everyone dreads those terrifying days during each month when you know beyond a shadow of a doubt that you are behaving like a raging bitch on a stick, and you just don’t give a damn. Relationships have been all but ruined because of PMS. People have been maimed and may have even died. It’s a serious matter that deserves serious attention.

I think it’s about time we created some sort of early detection system to send out a warning when PMS is evident. Similar to the one in place for tornados. It would be beneficial, especially for men. Like a public service announcement. “The emergency broadcast system’s PMS detection center has identified three women in your vicinity who are experiencing severe symptoms of PMS. This is not a test. You may want to take cover in a basement or other shelter surrounded by multiple sports channels and beer until the storm blows over.”

I’d be all for that. In fact, it might work in our favor. There is nothing that will clear a room faster than the three words, “I have PMS.” It’s almost like an exclusive club. And women who spend a lot of time together end up suffering around the same time every month. Misery loves company…and shopping…because PMS is almost completely alleviated by shopping, bitching and chocolate, and not necessarily in that order. So drop off your credit card on the way to your man shelter.

Happy Hour anyone?

Until the next time…I’ll be taking Midol!

f*#$%ing girl scout cookies!

After spectacularly beautiful weather in Atlanta this weekend, we were plunged back into winter today.  And I was just starting to get used to the nice warm weather too.  I had my all windows open enjoying the lovely breeze, we started a new garden in the yard, and I even have a newly built fire pit to roast a curried goat! (or not!)  Now, rumor has it that it may snow again tonight!  Snow…in Atlanta! Who would have guessed?

Just over a week ago, I was praying for another dose of snow, and another snow day.  But after only two short days, I’ve become spoiled by the sunshine.  It’s not that I mind the snow.  I mean…a little cold weather just gives me more time for my “six weeks of winter” diet, right?  And after all…spring is just around the corner.

One of the major drawbacks to the coming of spring is the arrival of the dreaded Girl Scout cookies.  This weekend ushered in the official Girl Scout cookie sales launch, so the wretched things were literally EVERYWHERE!  The girl scouts have been staked out in front of every grocery store and every shopping center in town.   I can’t even escape them at work!  Every hour or two a girl scout leader finds her way into the bank dangling a box of cookies on a stick to entice and torment me.  It’s as if they know my willpower is weak. 

There is, without a doubt, something unnatural about those cookies.  I swear to God that Thin Mints are laced with crack!  There is absolutely no other valid reason as to why I feel the overwhelming urge to inhale the entire box after tasting just one.  I don’t even have the patience to dunk them in milk, like with Oreos.  I’m not sure if I’m even tasting them or not.  I seem to lose all rational thought when I have Thin Mints in my hands.  And it’s not just Thin Mints!  If I eat another peanut butter Do Si Do, I think I might burst!

I know…I know…the solution would appear to be quite simple.  Stay away from them.  Don’t buy them.  Just say no and all that.  But those cult leaders trot out the absolute cutest kids to waive the signs, and to dangle the boxes of cookies…and who can resist those little faces?  It’s like running into Sally Struthers and her international children’s charity on every street corner.  I can almost hear Sally now, “Just three dollars and fifty cents for a box of cookies could feed 1 child for an entire year.”  And I can’t even make it through the hour with that one $3.50 box.

The problem is, once they’ve reeled you in they’ve got you.  I’ve already gone through four boxes of the damn crack biscuits and they’ll be back at the bank again tomorrow, I just know it!   Is it any wonder that the poor groundhog barricades himself into his burrow for six extra weeks every year!  He’s trying in vain to avoid the girl scouts and their addictive cookies.

I have tried storing mine in the freezer to slow down my voracious cravings, but damn it if they don’t taste better frozen!  So I decided to only eat one at a time.  I carry that one cookie all the way to the sofa and sit down before I eat it.  I thought, surely the extra effort to fetch more would discourage me—it didn’t.  I just made more trips.  A part of me thinks that might help to burn a few calories.  So I started putting them in a jar above the cabinets.  I have to climb a ladder when I want a cookie.  If I can’t give them up, at least I can make it a workout to get to them. 

I’m positive it isn’t just me who can’t resist the pull toward the temptation of the Girl Scout cookie. I have seen my coworkers scramble to the ATM to withdraw their grocery money just to spend every cent on cases of assorted cookies.  I just have to wonder what the hell the girl scouts are doing with all the millions of dollars in cookie money?  This has to have become a big business!  After all…they even have Thin Mint ice cream now!  I imagine a Girl Scout island somewhere in the South Pacific.  Samoas in Samoa.  Buildings constructed solely of shortbread Trefoils.  Their true leader?  A Willy Wonka like emperor.  The only other inhabitants on this island?  A tribe of Oompa Loompa like creatures dressed in ambassador sashes over tiny bikinis.  I imagine them running around, laughing and playing in the surf, living off fresh fish and vegetables.  What are they laughing at?  They don’t even eat the cookies!  Lucky bastards! 

Until the next time…I’ll be starting a twelve steps anti-cookie program!

six more weeks of whining

I got up this morning the way I do every morning…grudgingly. I stumbled out of bed, staggered sleepily to the shower, and completed my morning rituals quietly, and without interruption. It was a dreary morning.  Light rain dripped down from a gray blanket of clouds. The sun had already come up, but it was nowhere to be seen. Despite the dismal gloomy sky, I took for granted that sunrise had come at the same time it did most every morning, I was rarely awake to see it. To me this was just another Tuesday in a long week of work. I was completely unaware that it was also Groundhog’s Day. I hadn’t saved that day on my Blackberry, and if it isn’t on my Blackberry…well, it must not be that important. When I finally realized what day it was—several hours later—I actually felt a little bad that I missed it, the whole extravaganza that surrounds the yearly appearance of the groundhog. And not just for the sake of the groundhog, but for sentimental reasons. Twenty years ago, this was the day my son was due to be born. (Thankfully, he was four days late because I can’t imagine what would have happened if HE had seen his shadow coming out…I don’t think I could have survived six more weeks of pregnancy!) Then I started thinking about the groundhog again. Do we really care that much whether or not the groundhog sees his shadow? Does it still have the same relevance in our lives that it used to have? Maybe. But I would hazard a guess that the only relevance is psychological. Then again, I might take the whole ordeal more seriously if the news media didn’t trudge out to the animal’s den before the sun had even fully crested the horizon, lights and cameras in hand, to drag the poor thing out of its bed kicking and screaming. Even Paris Hilton gets more respect! So I tried to think of myself like the groundhog. I imagined myself back in bed still asleep, as I usually am at quarter to seven in the morning, sweet dreams swirling around in my brain. Thirty or so minutes to go before the first wave of alarm clocks would go off and the only sound was the soft buzz of geriatric dogs snoring. Blissfully unaware…like our friend the groundhog. What would I do if someone came crashing into my bedroom so early, TV cameras at the ready? Provided they could plot a course through the dangerous territory known as my bedroom, a space riddled with doggy beds, loose blankets and half a dozen tennis balls, not to mention all three dogs and one ninja cat! (I have all too often gone down in that obstacle course myself.) Still, the press is skilled at navigating treacherous terrain on a daily basis, so I will assume they survived the journey to find me, face buried in my pillow, sound asleep…and wham! Suddenly, I’m up! Eyes wild…teeth bared…hair all in a tangle. I think I might just curse them all to six more weeks of winter! And why wouldn’t I? Surely they deserve at least that! But because I’m so over winter, and ready to usher spring back in, I think I’d just doom them to six more weeks of whining instead. That might just be the PMS talking. I have been sadly afflicted these past few days. I don’t even know if groundhogs get PMS, but it would explain things a little bit better to know they did. What other excuse is there for cursing someone to six whole weeks of winter just for seeing one’s shadow? PMS does that to people. It’s a vicious cycle. Everyone dreads those terrifying days during each month when you know beyond a shadow of a doubt that you are behaving like a raging bitch on a stick, and you just don’t give a damn. Relationships have been all but ruined because of PMS. People have been maimed and may have even died! It’s a serious matter that deserves serious attention! I think it’s about time we created some sort of early detection system to send out a warning when PMS is evident. Similar to the one in place for tornados. It would be beneficial, especially for men. Like a public service announcement. “The emergency broadcast system’s PMS detection center has identified three women in your vicinity who are experiencing severe symptoms of PMS. This is not a test. You may want to take cover in a basement or other shelter surrounded by multiple sports channels and beer until the storm blows over.” I’d be all for that. In fact, it might work in our favor. There is nothing that will clear a room faster than the three words, “I have PMS.” It’s almost like an exclusive club. And women who spend a lot of time together end up suffering around the same time every month. Misery loves company…and shopping…because PMS is almost completely alleviated by shopping, bitching and chocolate, and not necessarily in that order. So drop off your credit card on the way to your man shelter. Happy Hour anyone?

Until the next time…I’ll be taking Midol…

Erica