I HATE YOU, SUNDAY

(Not our team ... but it could be the same weather conditions.)

Sunday, Sunday.  How I love you, Sunday.  Then comes Monday.  I hate that.

Plus the predictions are for more snow.  The one day I requested off.  To drive to Vermont.  To see a game ... outside, in the snow.

Snow?  Really?

Sure it can and does snow big into April.  But haven't we had enough (she asks innocently)? 

People all around are ignoring the wind chills (for the time being) and concentrating all their energy on NO SNOW.  Personally, I'm done with it.  My shovels are in the cellar -- well, one is in the cellar, the other is next to the door to the cellar.  One of those shovels had to make an appearance last week.

Look, Everywhere That Isn't New England, we are damn sick of this winter.  Wind chills are going to be in the teens again this week, too.  All I need is Lambchop, Shari Lewis's puppet friend, to make an appearance, singing:

This is the snow that doen't end
Yes, it falls on and on again
Some people started shoveling
They made it to the street
But then it started snowing more
And they just claimed defeat
This is the snow that doesn't end...
(repeat ad nauseum)

So, Sunday, I do not love you.  Sure, I don't have to work at my desk today nor worry about the boss looking over my shoulder.  But Monday is looking right back at me no matter where I turn, and for that, Sunday, for that ... I hate you.