It’s been winter for 35 days — might as well be 35 years!

It’s been a month and 24 hours since Christmas, even though it seems like that was decades ago.

The calendar’s been stuck on winter for 35 days so far — yet each one feels like a YEAR to we cold-weather haters. Sorry snow fans, but I haven’t felt my fingers or toes in weeks. #RaynaudsDisease

It’s not yet Groundhog Day, that annual facade whereby we exploit, manipulate and basically lightboard (as opposed to waterboarding) an innocent, unsuspecting rodent into becoming the poster boy for dashed dreams of a shortened winter solstice. Nine times out of 10, he “sees his shadow,” right?

Poor little guy; forced to be the bearer of traditionally bad news as we pin our frigid hopes to his short, flat hairy snub of a tail.


Grumpy? Who called me that? Hmpf.

Okay, perhaps the winter grays — I refuse to call them blues because that invokes mental imagery of sunny skies — have set in for the season over old PK’s crabby little head. Again, mi dispiace.

But like Han Solo always says when the hyperdrive on the Millennium Falcon fails, “It’s not my fault!” There are triggers everywhere. For instance, social media.

Look man, do I hafta like your stuff on Instagram post if I already slapped my old smiley face or heart emoji on it via your Facebook wall or SnapChat story? It’s enough already.

BT dubs, I could’ve lived very happily never having known about your toe fungus complication. Thanks for the juicy ER graphic accompaniment, by the by. Blech. #DoneEatingForToday

Keeping with the electronic communication theme, I really don’t care for passive-aggressive email bullies who roast you but are then nice in person. That tactic always cracks me up. “Ah NOW you’re good with me? Shall we call my boss in so he can ‘See See’ this display o’ love like he did the rage-gram you CC’d him about me an hour ago?”


There’s other stuff poking this grouchy bear out of her hibernation, too.

• The old quarter of a roll of TP in the hotel bathroom.

You know the drill. There’s no spare in sight and you meet with extreme attitude when you call the front desk requesting more: “Fine but you’ll have to come get it. I’m short-handed. Click.”

Well, I’m short-papered but, whatever. #ByeByeRedRoofInn

• Cranky cashiers.

At one random super store I frequent, angry customer service is apparently policy. One look at my cart and I’m told, “You know, there’s no line at self-checkout…”

I don’t mean to be a jerk, but isn’t it your actual job to scan my stuff? I’m bagging it as we go, shouldn’t that count for something? Sheesh, back in the day, the guy at the gas station never got mad at me if I needed a full tank. He even washed the windshield. More grrr.

• Fast food workers who get fried if you want your order, um, correct.

Look, I know the difference between diet and regular soda. I also know you “accidentally” gave me nondiet because I asked for the cheeseburger with ketchup only and the baked potato dry. And yeah, I realize you’re gonna spit in my replacement beverage — so I know I’ll be stopping off for diet sodas elsewhere.

And I’m taking them straight into the cave. Hmpf.

Call me when it’s at least 50 degrees Fahrenheit. Say, June? Growl.


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