I appreciate the creative incubation tank proffered by winter, I really do, but now that it’s officially March I find myself eying the floral dresses in my closet with a longing I usually reserve for chocolate-lemon tarts, Helena Rubenstein’s jewels, and certain exes who just aren’t good for me. Yesterday it snowed yet again, and to console myself I bought some tulips buds; their nascence matched my mood. Today they popped: yellow blooms with slender red stripes, such a pretty surprise. I love them ardently, and as I work at my desk, keep stealing glances of these proud little ambassadors of a spring that’s bound to arrive someday, regardless of the blizzard that threatens to arrive later this week. Who can believe such doomsday predictions anyway? Today at least it promises to reach 40 degrees and the sun is shining with all her might. I am cheering her on. “Only God, my dear/ Could love you for yourself alone/ And not your yellow hair.”
After three weeks of snow and ice and, for variety, ice and snow, this weather is really getting old. Permakitten Grace has such cabin fever that she now spends all her times hunting me, thereby confirming my theory that everyone needs a frenemy. Mostly she crouches in corners, ears pinned back while she studies her prey with narrowed eyes and half-hearted growls. (She’s not naturally a mean sort.) Sometimes she takes it up a notch, and manages to scare me. She’s very sneaky. This morning she poked her head out of the slightly ajar sock drawer, landed on me while I was peeing (who closes the door when they live alone?), and materialized in my boot when I bent to put it on. I’d be cross except a. her stealth technique is admirably high-caliber b. she’s cracking me up. In fact, said feline has earned herself a new name. All hail Little Miss Pop-Up Video.