Since mid-November, hope has sprung eternal in my human breast. Hope for that high-demand teacher-catnip, the ever-elusive snow day.
Have I been rewarded? I think not. I sent my hope springing, like a hopped-up springbok across the sands of the Kalahari, seeking some respite from routine. But unlike the mighty pronking springbok, my hope has withered, unrequited. Two meager snow days. The sole reward for my fountain of hope.
We are rushing at the speed of fifty-degree January sunlight toward the midpoint of winter. And what could Mr. Punxsutawney Phil possibly have to tell us next week? That we will have six more weeks of winter? Ooh! Don't scare me now, Mr. Phil, with that threat of balmy, mild days. Perhaps he will predict an early spring. If so, perhaps he can delineate the difference between winter weather and spring weather.
Because I seem to have forgotten.
It's now or never, Winter. Poo or get off the poo receptacle.