Ou sont les neiges?

Where indeed?  Here, goddammit.  Poor, ill-fated Jon Erik Hexum is dressed for les neiges (captured by Mr. Hurrell in the full glory of his short-lived splendor), but frankly...

...I'm sick to death of it.  And the cold.  And the dark, and the damp.

"Move to Washington," they said.  "You won't mind the winters, really you won't," they said. "They're so short, and they're never very cold, and there's never very much snow..." they said.

Well, to quote dear Miss Kathy Bates in her meme-ized appearance on American Horror Story (see - I may not watch much TV, but I keep up) - liiiiiieeeeeeesssssss.

For the past 24 hours now it's been snowing and sleeting and raining and every unpleasant variation possible, I believe, on each.  Enough already.  I don't know who's more appalled - me, Mr. Muscato, or the dogs, who of course have the added burden of even a comparatively modest blanket of snow coming up over their shoulders.  Boudi, who knows no shame, will do his business anywhere, even in the midst of a slick sidewalk, but poor responsible Koko feels obliged to find a secluded spot and ends up looking like like a terrier Nanook.

Oh, don't get me wrong - even all this isn't enough to make me miss the Sandlands, not really, not most of it.  I remember all too well the dust and the miserable heat (and the vulgarity and the racism and the colossal waste of it all, but that's another rant).

But spring, truly, can come along any moment now and be assured of a warm welcome at our house.