I’m sick of writing about it. I’m sick of complaining about it. And this will the last time this week (I can’t promise that this will be the last time this year, as much as I’d like to make that promise) that I will mention how sick I am of this crappy weather.
Today is April 6 (and somewhere beyond the international date line it’s already April 7) and it’s cold and rainy. I feel like Bill Murray in “Groundhog Day,” except that as he repeated the day over and over again, his attitude and outlook on life dramatically improved, despite all the snow. In my case, I’m still as cranky as ever, and the weather isn’t helping at all.
I am addicted to the extended forecast. And every time I look at it, there are more annoying little images of raindrops and sub-60 degree temperature readings than I care to count. Even Chloe is getting worried. She’s asked me several times in the last week whether it will be warm in France when we go at the end of June. Who the hell knows? As far as I’m concerned, all bets are off.