Forget what I said about warm weather

This is not the California they promise you in the songs and brochures. Today, the backyard is a deserted, windblown wasteland, and I was in my flannel jammies within six nanoseconds of arriving home from work (as opposed to my usual twelve nanoseconds). I've closed most of the windows, despite my weird lack-of-oxygen phobia, I'm drinking tea (the hot kind), and I'm not at all annoyed by the massive amount of heat this laptop is kicking out. We're talking grey, chilly, blustery, Bronte-sisters-English-moors weather. I think Mother Nature is smacking me in the head for getting all ahead of myself with summery talk. Or, maybe this is punishment for the folks who were complaining a couple of days ago that it was too hot (I wasn't one of them). Creeps.

Yes, it is slightly possible that there's a bit of exaggeration happening here. And, for the record, I don't generally do much griping about the weather, since ours beats the heck out of the weather in roughly 95% of everywhere else in the universe. But it is not Mayish today, or even April-like, and there were no outdoor adventures to be had this evening, so Clara passed the time dressing and redressing her Barbies in the warmth of her hermetically sealed bedroom.
Meanwhile, Trevor and I celebrated Bendy's birthday by making crazy, fake food sandwiches and showering Bendy with luxurious gifts that most plastic lawn flamingos can only dream about. Each present was carefully wrapped in this week's junk mail, and deftly unwrapped by Bendy's able beak.
My lap is toasty warm after all of this blogging, but my hands, nose, and ankles are cold to the bone and/or cartilage. You would think I'd be too chilly to go and get myself a frosty bowl of ice cream, but you would be wrong.