Return of the sun over the car pool lane. Greater Chiberia, March, 2014.
I do not trust this warm band of light streaming across my cheeks, but I allow myself a fleeting, sun-ish moment of what passes for hope in these parts.
It snows later that same day.
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I am dreaming of New Orleans today, where the streets are paved in crawfish, daiquiris are sold by the gallon, and where my favorite sister-in-law has probably collapsed beneath the weight of her shiny, plastic beads. It's not that I don't miss you guys every single day, I just miss you more today, crawfish.
Just kidding. I am of course referring to daiquiris.
From the sister-in-law archives: Mom will always love me a little bit more
From the N'awlins archives: How to Pay for College with Witchcraft
A better idea: Let's dance.
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There is a certain point in the long and dreary Midwestern winter when you are left with no choice but to give up.
Despite your best efforts, it will eventually drive you to your knees, where you will be forced to dig for the car keys you dropped into 19 inches of snowfall in subzero temperatures.
When that happens, it won't really matter that you are wearing new boots or that underneath the clothes that are underneath your clothes, your underwear is the color of the tropics.
But why should you have to suffer when there are cupcakes? There are almost always cupcakes around here. I am starting to think of them as food.
From the cupcake archives: Like Buttah
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I don't like to complain, but when I heard that there was more snow in the forecast this week, my first thought was [expletive deleted].
My next thought was also profanity laced, but it was more along the lines of, "of course." It's February. In this part of the world, that means snow. Or ice, or possibly just life-threatening wind chill temperatures. Whatever.
As Midwesterners are fond of saying, it's the days like this that make you appreciate the muddy, grey chill of the coming Midwestern spring even more. This is what is known in the Midwest as "perspective." The winter-hardy people of the plains are famous for it, along with something called "green bean casserole," which is a dish people make when they have completely given up.
Click here if you want to read more weather-related grievances. Click here if you would prefer your weather-related grievances with a side of cheesecake. Click here if you have had it with weather-related grievances.
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It's Cat Tuesday here on Suburban Kamikaze, and on all the other edge-of-the-trend blogs. Probably. It could be a thing.
Whatever. If blogging has taught us anything - and we freely admit that it has not - it is that you can't overdo cats. Not like horses, which have to be used sparingly. Which is why we don't say "beating a dead cat" when we mean "enough already."
Although I am thinking of making that a thing too.
Feel free to link your own cat mews news in the comment section. Terrible puns are always encouraged, as is profanity, haiku and parenting advice, as long as it includes profanity, or comes in the form of a haiku.
Sure they're cute, but start feeding them and soon you have Sixth Graders Everywhere.
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You cannot throw a wet Speedo in South Florida without hitting a hard-bodied man. It may be just a trick of the light, or possibly a Margarita-related phenomenon, but that doesn't make it any less real gratuitous. We came across this guy just outside downtown Miami.
You're welcome,
-SK
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You can't throw a dead iguana in these parts without hitting an alligator.
And vice versa.
They look fierce, but large, purse-carrying, lipstick-wearing South Florida reptiles are really more afraid of you.
There is no more authentic Miami-area experience than communing with prostitutes firearms face-eating zombies alligators.
from the South Florida archives: Our pursuit of Unshaven Men Takes a Harrowing Turn
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