The Winter of this content

Tis the never ending season of winter evermore.  Where polar vortexes require solar gortexes.  The barometer emits its readings of barometricity.  Seasonal affective disorder hangs around like cabin fever.  It could drive a man to drink; yet I can't quench this thirst for an end to this abysmal season.

When will this unseasonably warm weather end?  And return to the seasonably warm weather we long for.  Game of Thrones forewarned that "winter is coming," but how much of these dry, warm Santa Ana winds can we stand?  Did I mention that it's warm?  Constantly sleeping with the windows open makes our home's innards feel like room temperature.  

Oh wait, did I also mention the ginormous, heaving piles of snow? No?  That's because this ain't Sheboygan.  This is Cali:  the all action, all the time state.  It's like a steadily irrigated, reclaimed desert out here.  Whilst my brethren bravely face the infinite snow and arctic air, I get a chill when it drops below 70, at dusk. 

But on a serious aside, the drought here approaches biblical proportions.  Steinbeck could write a sequel:  The Raisins of Wrath.  Can't they pile that east coast snow on a transcontinental railway?  

We've resorted to monitoring the kids' shower times. The dogs share a single water bowl.  And I'm doing my part as well:  drinking my martinis extra dry.  After all, these Santa Ana's are making me thirsty.