I am done with winter.
Completely and totally done.
The cold is making me creaky and cranky. And we don't even have pretty snow to look at. We just have cold.
(For those people who have had enough snow, remember that I live in a place that goes for years without any appreciable snowfall. For those of us who have always lived in this part of the country, snow is magical and special and we indulge in it with almost giddy delight. If we had more, we'd get grumpy about it, but we don't. And we're so delighted by it that we call a snow day when we have less than an inch on the ground. Of course, we tend to get ice to go with the snow, so that may not be such a ridiculous idea.)
There is more of the arctic air heading our way.
To compound the crankiness, I have not threaded a needle in four days, much less poked said needle into any sort of fabric.
I had to go out of town on a work trip. By the time I did what I went out of town to do and had dinner and got back to my hotel room, it was getting late and I was tired. At that point, about all I could manage was a shower and an an early bedtime with my book. It didn't help that I was not sleeping well or enough, so that by the time I came home again, I was really wiped out. Then I had to have some tests of a medical nature this morning. I was poked and prodded, stressed and scanned, and then I was imaged. After that, I had to go to work, to discover that in the three days I was away my voice mail, inbox, and desk had exploded. I am convinced that my assistant hides things until I leave my desk and then dumps piles of assorted stuff all over it.
So, yes, I would like some cheese with this whine.