Snow is good. Don’t gotta water the lawn.

Snow is bad. Gotta shovel the driveway.

Snow don’t care what we think of it. Snow gonna snow. Y’know?

There are times when I wish we lived someplace that never sees snow. Like, right now, for example. I’d rather be riding a bike today than pushing a shovel. Especially when I know it’s gonna snow some mo’.

But when you take one from Column A (“No snow, please.”) you must also take one from Column B (“Hot as balls? Fuck.”).

You can always add layers as the temperature plummets. But when it skyrockets you can remove only a few before the gendarmes take an interest.

During my short stint in Tucson I rarely rode a bike. What I did was swim — or, more precisely, lounge around at the University of Arizona pool and gaze mournfully at the coeds therein. I had 10-foot-pole marks all over my body that year. But a nice tan.

Nobody was thrilled to glimpse this pendejo at poolside sporting a Speedo, and they would be less so now, 44 years further on down the road. A hunnerd-fiddy pounds of turkey jerky wearing a coin purse? No thank you, please.

“Jesus, Terri, I can’t deal with this. Let’s move someplace where it snows.”