It's sixty-three degrees out. An azure sky filled with cotton-candy clouds lightly caresses southern Maine.
I'm wrapped in a blanket, drinking tea, trying to pronounce my sibilants and liquids* clearly, and attempting to keep the contents of my sinus cavity and lungs firmly where they belong. Worst of all? I'm going to have to miss out on the Freeds' glorious hasenpfeffer.
I've clearly pissed of the weather anomalies in charge. Great. That bodes well for the year.
*To the linguistics experts among my reading cohort (of which there are several): Apologies for messing up my articulation nomenclature. I did the best I could in the germ-induced haze.