Fed up and cabin-fevered

George Home once said, “Patience strengthens the spirit, sweetens the temper, stifles anger, extinguishes envy, subdues pride, bridles the tongue.”
Obviously he never spent a long, cold winter cooped up in this part of the country awaiting signs of spring.
I don’t know about you, but my patience is pooped out and my disposition has run amuck. I’m sick of the cold and tired of defrosting the ends of my fingers each morning.
If the mercury doesn’t pull up its socks pretty soon, the only thing sweet about my temper will be the natural red glow on my cheeks when I lose it. And I’ll need a muzzle to idle my tongue if Mother Nature doesn’t get up off the couch and start pushing up tulips.
Yes, I’m having a “climbing the walls, winter blues” episode.
Why else would I leave a “Post-It” note attached to the toilet paper holder calling for the culprit to come clean who put the roll on backwards?
I’m also talking to house flies. I found myself encouraging one to get up and stretch its legs the other day because I figured it was a sign of spring if he was moving around.
That was okay until I found him rubbing his back legs together while standing in my oatmeal.
I joined the dog the other day in staring out the living room window into the “nothing”—a white frontier of snow. I could sense Dot’s longing for greener pastures on which to terrorize the cat.
All I wanted to do was cut the grass—all three acres of it (I really must have a fever).
Pete has started his own defiance of winter with a tray of newly-sprouted vegetable seeds. Using all of his brain power, he wills the seedlings to grow by staring at them for extended periods of time.
It’s a technique he picked up from Dot, who does the same thing when watching you eat your lunch.
I thought I had winter beat when the temperature crept ever so close to the melting point. In a feverish fit, I ripped off all the plastic insulation over the windows in the Tuscan room—only to wake up the next morning to minus-26 C and a crust of ice on the inside sill.
I went back to the living room to stare into the nothing, when what to my wandering eyes should appear? Spring had made a stand just over where a little patch of grass peeked through in a delightful shade of green.
The snow was melting!
I shouted for Pete, who broke his mind-meld with the sprout tray and wandered over. But I should have kept my mouth shut.
His explanation on why the spot was there dashed my anticipation of wide-scale greener pastures. Good thing he made me laugh.
The green grass was atop the septic tank. The result, he quipped, of too many jalapeños on his pizza.
Oh, brother.

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