Friday, January 2, 2015

Rebecca Whines About Winter

Holy meth-fueled goat orgies, I hate the cold.

I am aware that this is not that interesting of a topic; but I can’t stop thinking about it. I suspect my cerebrospinal fluid has frozen.

Cold ruins great things. Take Halloween, for example.  You have to choose between integrating winter wear into your costume and freezing your face off. Drinking until you can’t feel temperature anymore doesn't work when you are in charge of a herd of miniature, sugar-charged robots or elephants or whatever.  My plan is to buy one of those sleeping bags that cinches around one’s face in a vaguely pinkish hue, cut the bottom out of it and walk around trick-or-treating as a length of someone’s colon.  Dress the kids as doctors and they can be little proctologists.

I have been asking for a pluggy-inny-type heat rocks for lizards for every gift-giving holiday from everyone I know for as long as I remember. That isn't the sort of gift a lady gets for herself.  So far it hasn't happened.

Once winter sets in, the phrase, “I can’t wear this outfit; it is horrible” leaves my vocabulary, and is replaced by the phrases, “Oooh! THAT’S fuzzy,” and, “More layers. BRING ME MORE! Bwahahahahaha!”

If you ever hear that I was found dead in a dry sauna, just know that I died happy.  Really, really happy. There was probably an upsetting smile on my gross, dehydrated, raisiny face. Dying in a dry sauna is actually on my list of Causes of Death I am At Peace With, alongside items “While Having Sex” and “Of Baklava.”

For those of you who have children, you know that taking them anywhere amid frigid temperatures is surely penance for the more appalling acts you have committed.

 First, make a pile of all of the wintery things you must wrap around said children in order to fend off a Jack-London-style death.

Then, snatch a child from the writhing throng before you.  This is an important choice. Once bundled, this child will instantly be too hot and pissed: choose the child whose wails are the least abrasive, and who isn’t coordinated enough to take his or her own clothes off.

Meanwhile, the medium-sized one will have scattered your carefully collected pile of hats, socks, boots, and mittens to the far corners of the house, and the largest one will declare that she isn’t going wherever it is and flee.

Catch the large one, pin her down with a knee to the chest, cram her in winter garb. Then, using threats of physical violence and/or destruction of her personal property, prevent her from stripping while stuffing the medium-sized one’s wiggly little arms and legs into boots and mittens. Now everyone should be sweaty and weeping softly.

Small and Medium under each arm, Large held in thrall by threats hissed through gritted teeth: to the auto. This is the worst part. While your children sit comfortably in the preheated car, you complete the ten-minute-long process of buckling them in while your rump is collecting snow. That, and your jeans are riding down and your traaaaaaaamp staaaaaaamp is chilly.

I guess the point of all of this is: I hate the cold, and I plan to be in a bad mood until spring. So don’t talk to me or even make eye contact until it is at least seventy degrees out. You may think I'm looking at you; but I am seeing you as a tauntaun from The Empire Strikes Back. I may try to take out your guts and use you as shelter. Mkay.

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