Monsieur Snowman is vacationing in Le Petit Village.
Last Sunday the weathermonsieur advised that we were in for a cold week. An icy wind was blowing in from Eastern Europe and with it snow. Thank you my former communist comrades.
And oh how he was right. It’s freaking freezing. Like Russia cold.
It’s beautiful and picturesque and I’m trying damn hard to appreciate it’s quaint Christmas charm but it’s hard to ignore the muddy slushy aftermath and the numb stumps that have replaced my fingers.
My gloves seem to have met their kryptonite in this Eastern European wind and it’s time like these that I’m regretting Fifty and that damn schedule. Especially since Fifty has taken us off schedule to fuel his new snow habit.
He loves it, can’t get enough. He’s addicted and he’s willing to lie for it. And I’m suffering.
Fifty knows that if he wants to go outside he can sit by the door and the crazy schedule lady will take him, so now he figures that if he wants to play in the snow he just has to sit by the door and crazy schedule lady will take him out instead of risking an unscheduled accident.
And that’s what he’s doing. He’s sitting by the door every hour on the hour.
I’m not enjoying the snow as much as Fifty.
All I want for Christmas is to feel my fingers again. And for it to stop snowing.
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