Heat, sun, warmth, sweat, tropical island

Well, it's time for your weekly punishment, also known as this column. If you recall, I mentioned, in passing, (mentioning in passing rarely occurs in my life but just play along if you will, and even if you won't), I'm churning out original columns as much as possible in the new year. Therefore, I shall write about whatever floats to the forefront and you will, more than likely, suffer miserably and beg for reruns, eventually.

There is one thing on my mind, as of late, and it's of a most urgent nature. As you are abundantly aware, I seldom keep things from my ardent fans, (all five), and this is no exception.

I'm wondering if my intro has reached an appropriate length at this point. I am thinking it has so I shall plow ahead to the actual thesis of this bloviating session. That was quite a segue, and I'm beaming with pride.

I have major, top secret news to impart. Mind you, it's pretty serious stuff so please brace yourselves for this pertinent information that has only been revealed to me, your humble columnist. Here goes...

It's unbelievably frigid outside. I know that data comes as a complete and utter shock to society at large and small but, I simply had to let you in on it for your own well being. Note: I fooled you with my title, didn't I? (Insert menacing voice/laugh of Vincent Price—some things never change with me.)

Not only is it hideously intolerable outside but, for those of us lucky (?) enough to dwell in homes built millions of years ago, before insulation was a staple, inside ain't no picnic either. (Yes, I just utilized improper grammar and I like it. Just deal with it. I must release some tension and that is my chosen methodology this time.)

To illustrate just how bitter this charming housing unit has become, I will tell you about my typing wardrobe. As I perch at my computer, which is located in the Siberian section of the bedroom, I'm donning the following attire: jeans, hunting socks, purple slippers, sweatshirt, super thick and long robe, gloves and one of those Elmer Fudd style hats, complete with rabbit fur, thrown in for good measure.

For kicks, I just might provide visual proof of the whole sorted mess. In doing so, I should take up space that would usually house words, thereby cutting down on my actual column. See, it's all a part of my nefarious plot to type less yet fill more of the page. I'm digressing to the max and I have to admit, it's the most sensational feeling I've had in over a week. (Minds out of gutter please. I mean that I digressed about a week ago, whilst penning a piece, which thrilled me to the marrow. Gee, I know it's cold but can't you people think of anything else?)

I'm veering back to prattling on about freezing temperatures now. This is insane behavior on the part of Mother Nature. I confess that I usually roll my eyes, with such severity that electricity could be generated, when those in my path moan incessantly about our delightful Pennsylvania weather. I feel that we should all accept and embrace said weather since, after all, this is a northern state, the last time I checked. However, since I'm the one doing the complaining—well, need I even finish that statement?

OK, if you can voyage mentally back to last week's piece, you may recall that I said something along the lines of cattle prodding myself out of bed more in the new year. That is absolutely out the door at this time. Any chance I get, I dash to the bathroom, soak in a Mr. Bubble bath and then launch myself onto my bed like a, well, like something determined and nimble. Honestly, I dread using the facilities for reasons other than bathing twelve times per day for warmth. I went as far as to beg my nurse best friend, Karen Morrison-Dygert, to simply provide me with a catheter but, she wouldn't budge. Some friend.

It's a good thing I work from home as unsuspecting clients have no clue that they are being solicited for advertising dollars whilst the seller lounges under 15 blankets, Pink Panther style, and dreams of bedside plumbing. (I guess they do now though.) I best expound on the Pink Panther deal as it's the right thing to do and, it fills more space with senseless blather.

For anyone under the age of forty, the Pink Panther was a cartoon about a pink panther—I know, hard to fathom but totally true. Well, on one of the episodes, that cute coral cold cat ended up under a plethora of blankets, which were piled to the ceiling, so that he could warm his delicious bones. (I really dig him just in case that got by you.) This was quite entertaining if you ask me and, of course, you did not. My father and I both lived for that episode and that's all that really matters. I sure miss that man. Another digression but a worthy one for those who knew Blaine “Germ” Houserman.

Easing back to the topic of suicide inducing frigidity, (actually, the act of ending it all might involve extracting oneself from comforters, feather down bags o sleep and other cozy cocoons, which would take way too much effort), why did this Arctic visitor chose to descend upon the entire nation with the speed, agility and utmost urgency usually reserved for a tornado? Why couldn't it casually and nonchalantly approach—while whistling even? I mean, one day things were wintry but livable and then, BOOM the deep freeze was upon us like white on rice, as they say in the southern regions of this fine country.

The whole situation really ticks me off to the max, quite frankly. This punishment has put a damper on simply maneuvering about one's home without the aid of a snowmobile suit for comfort. Not only but, I cannot even take the thought of, gasp, exiting the abode for any reason under the winter storm advisory. (Using the word sun just seemed inappropriate and, as we all know, I'm all about being totally appropriate at all times.)

Why didn't the invasion of Sarah Palin weather make a cameo on December 25, or at some other time when we all dreamed of such? WHY?

Whew. - See Heat page 7


- from page 7

I'm so relieved to have gotten this gripe out into the open. Perhaps my hot air might warm my computer area a touch. See, I'm always looking on the bright side. I'm super optimistic and not much of a complainer. Oh dear, this weather has CLEARLY interfered with my regular brain function. Hold me.

We've now come to the part of this column in which I should, if I could type properly in these gloves, attempt to wrap it up gently, yet effectively. I'm not so sure that's going to happen this week, or any other, for that matter. I will give it a shot right now.

THE END. (Hey, I said I'd TRY, I never mentioned succeeding.)