Cabin fever

All these people with cars who live in the great West Coast can suck it.

...

Okay, I don't honestly mean that. I am just insanely jealous that there are some folks out there who can just roll out of bed, slip some flip-flops on, drive out to the beach in a bikini, IN FUCKING JANUARY.

Meanwhile. I'm sitting here. In a ski cap. And gloves on my hands. And a blanket on my lap. Listening to Neko Case (that's a good thing). Now all I need is faithful Buster my side and a big fat stogie curling white smoke next to me. I already got the cabin fever part down-pat.

There was this one time, two summers ago in California. My aunt Josie and I had driven out to Malibu Beach and jumped into the waves, drenching our jeans and cutting our feet on the jagged shells and rocks. Good thing I brought a sundress with me. The bad thing was we didn't bring extra underclothes. So the drive back up the mountain was pretty interesting, high-tailing, weaving through the traffic with the windows rolled down and smelling eucalyptus, meanwhile being buck-nekkid underneath our clothes. Well, if you want to be technical, we're always butt-nekkid underneath our clothes. But you know what I mean.

This winter weather is getting OLD and it's not even February yet. Then again, I'd be lamenting about not having a sweetheart for Valentyne's Day by then. But at least I moved on.