A Thursday Open Letter

Dear Groundhog,

I hate you. You may be cute, true. You might be fuzzy, yes. However, if you come out of that effing hole and see your shadow EVER again, I will club you like Canadians going after baby seals. I am growing weary of this weather. I don't fit in my slacks, and they are uncomfortable at best, anyway. I am ready to wear skirts in brightly colored floral prints made of cotton. I am up for smothering SPF 40 all over my face and arms so that I may sit outside and guard my spray ground. I want to wear over sized sunglasses, and flip flops again.

Please, Mr. Groundhog, please. I want to have a reason to shave my legs again.

I would like to see a freckle or six on my shoulder. I want my hair to naturally lighten. I will gladly trade in my yoga pants and over sized hoody for a two piece lifeguard suit again. Buddha Belly and all.

I have lost faith in our weathermen. Can they not change the weather as the go? You, Mr. Groundhog, the see-er of all things meteorological, can you not have some influence? Might you possibly come up and say "Nope, no shadow!?"

Because, my dear friend, if we cannot reach a better solution to this wintry weather blues, I may be forced to find a recipe for groundhog loaf (Which I have found similar here and here). And you, particularly you, Punxsutawney Phil, are quite plump. I'm sure you would make an excellent stew.

Now, do not take vengeance in my threats (PROMISES). I will not be happy waddling around 30 some weeks impregnated in July. Do not give 115* temperatures, because, that too, I will blame on you. And then, sir, it will be much easier to bring broth to a boil.

I feel you may think that even if you are gone, your cronies, the local weathermen, will continue on. I have my own plans for them as well. I would like to mention that if I see another forecast such as this any time before December, Tony Soprano will look like a saviour.

With much love,

Corky S.