I just had my very first experience with inconvenient snow. For the record, I’m against it. I like my snow on the ground. It can be pleasant to watch snow falling, but only when I am inside, in front of a picture window, snug in my flannel PJs (preferably with access to a mug of coco and a plate of warm cookies).

Places I do not like snow include: on my glasses, in my eyes, under my scarf, in my ears, in the driveway, on the sidewalk, on my car seat, and up my nose. These places, it turns out, are snow’s very favorite places to settle.

When Bryan says that we could never live anywhere that has real winters–because I would fall over dead in the street–I always bristle. I mean, what am I? Some anemic hothouse flower that withers at the first chill breeze? Some featherless baby bird?

Yes, dear readers, yes I am. I would probably faint if you looked at me coldly. I plan to spend the rest of my days anywhere that has only two seasons: Summer and Almost Summer. They have Pina Coladas there.

It is 7 a.m. on Saturday morning, and the shirtless young man on the corner is high. He is wearing headphones and jerking rhythmically to the music. As we pass, he reaches into his pockets and pulls out change. He throws it into the street, and yells, Pennies, begone!