I hate winter.

It’s 23F right now. (That’s -5C for you metric folks.) I firmly believe that below a certain temperature, it just doesn’t matter anymore. It’s just too damned cold. Whether it’s 23F or 2F - who cares? Your skin feels numb, the car’s heater doesn’t really get warm, and no human being feels like going anywhere or doing anything.

Snow is planned for Saturday. Woo hah. Accumulation likely, blah blah. This, combined with mind-numbing temperatures, means that the snow will stick around forever.

I’ve been Susie Domestic this evening. The big goal was to bake my mom’s yummy cranberry-fruit-nut bread as gifts for my clients for Tuesday’s open house. But instead of looking like a page out of Martha Stewart Living, it looked more like An Osbourne Christmas. The bread kept overflowing the containers, burning to charcoal on the oven floor and setting my smoke alarm screaming. The tops of the loaves didn’t end up a yummy golden brown - more like a rock-hard brownish-black that people can only dream of gnawing on.

I made two batches side-by-side. Once all the ingredients were mixed, I had two absolutely different doughs. One was slightly runny, one was nearly cookie-dough consistency. A quick call to my mom didn’t help in the least. Her comment was, “Damn.” I agreed. I either forgot a cup of flour in one, or put too many cups in the other.

What-the-fuck-ever.

‘Tis the season, etc etc. I’m thinking the holidays are for men and kids. I mean, what do men have to do? The hardest thing they have to do each year is go shopping for a present for their significant other, and then show up. For women it’s cooking, cleaning, baking, shopping (which really sucks when it’s not for themselves), wrapping, decorating, entertaining … The list goes on and on.

I enjoy the holidays, I really do. I love love love seeing the looks on people’s faces when they open gifts I gave them, or when they enjoy themselves at function I plan or eat food I made. There’s no better feeling. But damn! Getting to that point is the tough part.

I was planning on losing a bunch of weight in time for the big Javier Mendoza Band show on New Year’s Eve. After all, it’s been way the hell too long since I’ve kissed a guy, and I figured NYE was the best place to find someone to kiss. As luck (?) would have it, though, I woke up Monday morning with the most horrible back pain. It hurt to move my arms. The pain was centered around my spine, right between my shoulder blades.

Yesterday morning it hurt to breathe. I immediately blamed the 10-year-old mattress, because I’ve hurt every morning as I get out of bed. Carol doesn’t think it’s that. She’s the only person I’d listen to, because she’s a physical therapist. She told me how to make a makeshift heating pad and had me lay on it for 15 minutes. Then I got to lay on a tennis ball and watch “Law and Order.” That was interesting.

When I woke up, I could actually move my arms without my muscles going into spasm. Physical therapists aren’t miracle workers, but I think they should be on the short list for early entry into heaven.

Well, nontheologically speaking.

Freezing,

michelle