blasted winter

I had to stand outside for three hours today.

I won't bore you with the details of why, but I will tell you that I stupidly opted to wear black suede boots rather than the thick winter boots that protect my toes.

I am stupid because today was an Edmonton winter day. The kind that doesn't just taunt you with its coldness, but tricks you with cool calculation. The temperature dipped when the sun rose, which is a special kind of evil reserved for the tundra. Yes, it only dipped to around -15C, but I'll remind you of that three hours spent standing outside.

My feet felt like ice blocks. Painful ice blocks making their way forward on thin soles because the person to whom the ice blocks are attached is not very smart.

All this explains why this line in the book I'm currently reading, Louisa McCormack's Six Weeks to Toxic, really bugs me:

"Snow was falling on Maxi's patch of freeze-dried grass, the kind of purposeful,
chubby flakes that snow globes aim for. Soon we'd be saying 'But the wind chill
is minus23,' cursing hockey management, pulling our toques down past our ears
and resorting to all the other habits of the frigid." (page 19)

Where to start....

This book is set in Toronto.

You know, the city that hasn't won the Cup in almost 40 years. The city that's practically balmy throughout the winter, compared to Edmonton.

The city that called on the military during the Ice Storm. The centre of the frigging universe.

Toronto.

But obviously there are redeeming qualities to this piece of chick lit.

For example:

"Reading Alice Munro was like filling a syringe with maturity and injecting
some. But the hit never lasted long enough. Before I knew it I was back to my
own wobbly first person singular with no omniscience to my credit." (page 76)

I'll admit, I'm not really a fan of Alice Munro. I'm not not a fan of her, I'm just more of an Atwood girl. Or maybe an Urquhart girl. Definitely a MacDonald girl.

But McCormack's description is enough to make me reconsider. Even if I'm still a little mad about wimpy Torontonians and their wimpy winters.

Surely some hot chicken noodle soup and bad Sunday night TV will make me feel much better and less anti-Toronto.

A couple notes -- the Edmonton pic is courtesy of this website. And I love my Toronto friends, really I do.