No fair.In Boston, it's frigid today for the first time since I've been out here. I think the windchill is 12 right now. That's all well and good, and it certainly serves to remind those of us stuck in mid-continent temperate zones all last year what a REAL winter is going to feel like, but what good is cold without snow? Snow gives the cold a purpose, it gives those of us with winter outdoor fetishes something to DO other than huddle inside and check weather.com hourly for the snow forecast, and of course there's that "snow is natural and good for the environment" thing. To top it off, I retain head-smacking rights for the next person I come across who moans and whines for a "white Christmas" and then moans and complains at the first scent of snow. "But I'll have to, like, walk in it." Yeah, well, the weather was here long before you were with your sensitive little tootsies.
Besides that, Bostonians have this crazy sense of fashion I've only seen in east-coast transplants at Madison. The minute it gets below 45 degrees, all the women bust out their boots. Ostensibly, they might be wearing boots to keep warm. Right? But...why then do they strip off all other layers but for spandex pants (tucked into the boots, let's not forget) and a North Face jacket adding roughly twelve inches to their diameter? You're a bit uneven there, m'am.
In other news, my downstairs neighbor has fallen into a fugue state, and I've gotten so worried as to call my landlord and talk with him about it. It makes you wonder: do you have to be crazy to be a poet, or does being a poet make you crazy? Poets, care to answer?
There are two weeks left in the semester. Between now and then, I've got four papers and a group facilitation to pull off, and then it's off to drive the Margemobile cross-country (halfway) to nestle in the in the safe, white, upper-middle class, flat, frequently-paved bosom of Woodbury. She'll get more use there - and will stop looking at me with those forlorn eyes every time I pass her by on my bike.
