I. Hate. Snow. Yes. Yes, I do. It may be wrong-headed and downright un-American of me, but I *hate* snow. It looks everything peaceful and innocent, but it's really hours of shoveling and moments of near-death slaloming on slushy streets and treks of salt and ice across clean hardwood floors. It's cold and wet and doesn't even have the decency to drag a decent thunderstorm with it. Blah. Hate snow. And here I am, stuck in the Midwest with 6-10" expected by morning, 1-2" more than that by noon, and bloody Lake Effect snow sifting gleefully at its leisure all afternoon.

In self defense, I am listening to my Road Trip to Arizona CD, filling my mind with memories of desert and heat and wild monsoon. Etta James' "At Last" is the sage-splashed red rock of Santa Fe. The Youngbloods' "Get Together" is the swaying switchback drive from Prescott Valley to Flagstaff. Rusted Root's "Send Me On My Way" is Clarkdale. The Dixie Chicks' "Goodbye Earl" is every gas station on that long, laughing, delicious journey.

Where is summer when you need it? Five months away---that's where. Sigh.

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