Why must I have a romantic notion about how delightful it is to live where there are four seasons? Two of which I don't really enjoy? Yes, winter and summer, I'm looking at you. You are just too long. I like the transition seasons that appear with an infusion of hope just when I thought I couldn't take it anymore. A small shoot of green appearing through the snow, waiting impatiently to unfurl into a daffodil. A cool breeze and smell of turning leaves snaking through the oppressive heat. So, I live where I live because I enjoy the weather for 1.7 months out of the year. I may want to rethink things.

We all know the snow this year has been horrid. It's so snowy, it's not even fun as those of us who are only four feet tall or less disappear into the white stuff and reemerge missing a glove and/or boot that will not be found until the spring. And shoveling the yard for the Princess Bear is a bit ridiculous. But no one said having a dog friend was easy.

The township supervisor released an interesting statement yesterday with the claim that all the roads had been cleared of snow. But that is a big fat lie. Because I live in the township and I have to drive for about ten miles in every direction before I can see any road poking through the snow. If I am driving at 15 mph with 4 wheel drive on and I'm still fishtailing and slipping all over the place, I'm going to go ahead and make the statement: The roads are not clear. Because clear would insinuate that they are easily drivable. And they really really aren't.

Not that you would know that by the piles of teenagers in SUVs driving like it's a joy ride on a summer evening in a stolen car. Or the school bus drivers! Yikes. Because our roads have been so woefully not plowed and cleared, I actually mulled over the possibility of Mort taking the bus to school. I thought perhaps it would be safer for him to be in a large bus than in a small SUV. But then Mort and I saw a bus that was obviously racing the joy-riding teenagers. Or maybe trying to outrun the

cops. Because it was flying. Maybe it had hit a patch of back ice?

"That bus is going so fast!" Mort gasped. "I hope those kids don't fall out of their seats!"

Because he had. Quite a few times. And thus ended his bus-riding career. I just can't put my child on a bus when he is sitting three to a seat with no seat belts and he tells me he falls onto the ground whenever they go over a bump and/or pothole. Plus, we live ten minutes from the school and his commute was an hour one way and forty-five minutes the other. I do know some of the school bus drivers and if he had one of them, I would feel a million times more comfortable. But he didn't and so I don't.

How did I get on this topic?

Some mornings, isn't my blog just too fun and cheery for words? Do you think you've stumbled upon the laundry list of complaints as compiled by your friendly neighborhood of angry old people with no lives? Would you like to hear about my horror at discovering the bread I've been buying ("Because I don't like seeds!!!" Mort shrieked, thus leaving me no choice but to seek out whole wheat bread that does not look like whole wheat bread.) has high fructose corn syrup in it? Or how our house humidifier isn't working and you get zapped every time you come in contact with any object in the home? And Mort was waking up with a sore throat? And Stella's allergies are flaring up? And Duke and I look like our skin is peeling? Or how my car's computer is channeling HAL and going stir-crazy from being in space too long and is insisting my tire pressure is low(it isn't) and my taillight is out(it's not)?

But we did make this while we were snowed in. So that will be lovely in about a week to 10 days. Check back with me then. I may be in a better mood.

And in the life lesson of Listen to Your Mother! Mort was walking down an ice covered ramp, purposefully trying to step on every patch of ice. "Try to avoid the ice," I kept saying in that broken record way mothers so often have. "My shoes are ice-proof!" he insisted. "Nothing is ice-proof and your feet will shoot out from under you and you could get really hurt, so I need you to be careful and listen tome and try NOT to step on the ice." Can you guess where this is going? Luckily, it was jean-patching day and what's another hole to patch amongst moms? And in case you were curious as to whether or not this little lesson has taught Mort that ice is better avoided, it has not. "Don't you remember that the last time you were fooling around on the ice, you fell?" I asked just this morning as he purposefully leaped from ice patch to ice patch. "Yeah, I remember," Mort replied, puzzled. "I didn't mind."

And one last noteworthy item on today's agenda: I was looking at Valentine's Day cards when I noticed the "From the dog" section of cards. That in and of itself is not noteworthy.What I was struck by however, was that some of the cards were labeled"From the Dog: Funny" but not all of them. Is that because some of them are serious? Some of the Valentine's Days cards that one may buy and give to someone else, pretending that they are FROM YOUR DOG are not supposed to be funny? Dear Human Companion, On Valentine's Day, I would like to take the opportunity to tell you how I really feel... Goodness. What will they think of next?