OK, so I am sitting here at work, hardly bothering to pretend to work at all. The sky in Portland today is a vast, heavy sheet of gray and the rain has been coming down sideways all morning, even turning to giant flakes of snow for a few freakish moments. I am counting my lucky stars that I am not stuck in frigid Minnesota. My mother tells me it is warming to a balmy 40-something today. She says they have been weathering temps around 10 degree in March, which as a fully acclimated Portlander I can scarcely imagine. I can't say I miss living in the Midwest. Not even the teeny-tiniest part of me misses it. And the weather is the least of it.
Here I am posting about the weather. Can you believe it? It is definitely one of those days. I wish I had a dark and terrible novel to read - preferably one set upon the moors in Scotland in the thick of winter, or on a dreadful windswept Western plain - I wish I had a fireplace, a giant glass of thick and sticky red wine and nothing but time, time, time. Days like these make me long for the fetal position and a booze IV.
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