So if all went according to meteorological plan – or, OK, prediction – plenty of us in these parts woke up this morning to snow. Now this might seem an especially cruel twist of fate, doubly so if lately we'd been toying with the idea of a.c. in March.
But I urge you to embrace Mother Nature no matter how fickle her behavior. In the words of Shania Twain, let her change her mind a million times. We should just go with the flow. Or the snow, as it were.
I may have a defensive ulterior motive here, but forget that for now.
First things first: Proud to say I've been on a tear this mild month. In an unprecedented display of energy and efficiency, attributable largely to the swell days now apparently behind us, I've made all kinds of early headway on tasks I every other year regret waiting far too long to tackle.
For one thing, I'm already 75 percent finished with my twice-a-year game of swap-the-closets, and anything wool or flannel or otherwise hot and itchy is out of sight and mind. For another, The Tipsy Tiki (a.k.a. leaning lounge-garage) has already had its first pass-through and inspection. The patio furniture is all unstacked and placed and the umbrella popped and planted. I even hung the little metal sign with the flip-the-way-you-feel attachment indicating whether happy hour is in session or (boo) over for the evening.
Then I went away for a few days. And that mama who pulls the strings in the skies? Well, she made a big, fat, frustrating mess. Came home to find:
The outdoor pillows no longer on the backyard chairs but upside-down in the dirt. The solar-powered tiki-torch – a piece of kitsch I love, in part because it actually works – snapped into three pieces. The outdoor porch carpet all haphazard and askew. And the lawn, freshly cared for by my visiting angel of springtime, once again arrayed all snazzy in "gumballs" fired like weapons from my favorite tree. (I won't repeat myself, except to remind for any who care that I have in my keeping a front-yard tower of terror that loves me so much it gifts me with pockets full of prickly presents almost daily this time of year. Picking them all up is my most enjoyable winter penance.)
Darn these mighty winds. They also seem to have scooped up (and deposited elsewhere) at least half of my pricy red-rubber mulch, because I swear I don't remember so many bare spots.
Ah well, said I to myself. Time to go back in the house. That'll teach you to jump the gun.
And that's when I spotted it: a little sled hanging by a little rope on the knob of a BIG door that wished me a Merry Christmas. Just when I'd decided I was so proud of myself, for all this unusual, extraordinary timeliness.
Merry Christmas, for crying out loud.
Pride is such folly.
A question: What good is decoration if three full months elapse and you live in the place and you notice it not even once? Closer inspection revealed, as in the past, that this wasn't the only piece of paraphernalia du Noel still hanging around either. Apparently, my attention to detail could use some attention itself. You know how sometimes you discover a cobweb you could wear as a head wrap? How did this come to pass? Where you were when this was but a finger of dust? These are the deep, reflective questions we all must ask ourselves on occasion.
Also: If I'm such hot stuff in the efficiency department why is my porch still crawling with shamrocks and leprechauns and wishing all who happen by a Happy St. Patrick's Day?
Is it even worth it now to whip out the wooden carrots and pastel eggs? Or do I just quit the fight and go back to bed until winter is really over?
On that note: Happy Easter, all. No matter what my house tells you.