Back You Cursed Glaciers! Back!

    I don't know whether or not you will believe this; however, the temperature here in my little lakeshore hamlet is a balmy forty-two degrees.  Yes!  Forty-Two --the ultimate answer according to Deep Thought.  It's the temperature at which Wisconsin becomes different from Fargo, Saskatchewan, or freaking Nome, Alaska.  Forty-Two degrees is the point where I can see a cow and think of steak as opposed to seeing one in the arctic wasteland and think immediately of a soft-serve ice-cream machine.  I want to go outside and enjoy this weather by standing in my back yard listening to the dying screams of the back-breaking mountain of snow I've had to shovel over the past several months.  I want to help it along by spraying gasoline on the snow, and tossing a lit match. 

    Die snow!  Die...  die... die!  Buwahahahaa!
   
    Seriously.  I hope it hurts the snow when it melts.  I hope it just sits there weeping as fellow flake after miserable flake dissolves slowly into the tundra below.  

    Snow is evil.  It deserves to die a horrible death.  I should be allowed to enjoy its death.  I should be able to hear it wail as the sun burns it into a puddle.   But nature truly hates me.  The snow remains silent as it disappears, and the only sound is an occasional drip or a random crack of ice as its frozen lattice gives way to the intruding warmth of spring. 
   
    Unfortunately, the balmy forty-two degrees is tempered by a gentle twenty-two mile per hour breeze.  And the clouds are an opaque shade over the sun.  So, in spite of the warmth, it's still a sub-arctic hell. 

    Oh well...  Later in the week it's supposed to rain.  That's springlike weather, right?  What's better than a gentle drizzle to wash away the eye-frying whiteness of all this snow?  Of course, there's a pretty good chance that by the time the rainy season does roll around later in the week, the weather people will be telling me that the rain will most likely be bitter little pellets of ice, and I should expect to have every strip of paint blasted off the garage and layer after layer of exposed skin flayed from my bones.

    So, how's the weather by you? 

-DP