Only 51 Days Until This Fucking Winter Dies

This winter has been a remarkably gentle one so far. I say this knowing full well that March can change my position on that entirely (much like it did in 2008) and hoping that the forces of jinx have better things to do than determine the region's weather by the heedless climate optimism of one silly blogger.

As remarkably gentle as it has been - as evidenced by the that this is only the second of these posts this winter so far (here is the first) - today was the first time I had that sinking winter hopelessness set in. I'm not sure at what point between waking up and arriving at my office the tide turned, whether it was my dog refusing to go to the bathroom or when I discovered too late that she'd gnawed half the buttons of my coat or when I realized I'd forgotten my scarf (a double whammy with the missing button problem) while waiting for a ridiculously long time to cross the street from parking lot to office building. Whatever it was, by the time the elevator doors closed and I was carried upwards by the engines of science and progress, I knew today would be a day I needed to calculate how many more of these fuckers I'd need to survive.

By my count, we have 51 days left in the winter. At that point, attention will turn to the Indians opening their home season. Until then, though, brrrrrrrr.