Last week on my first day of work after the New Year's break, I observed that, according to the digital thermometers outside of the banks along my commute, it was 1 degree Fahrenheit. The next day, it was a whole 4. There's something about only one vertical line being lit up in an entire digital read-out that makes me feel like I'm teetering on the verge of maniacal laughter.
The good thing about temperatures like that is that when they finally get back up to freezing (32), it actually feels kind of warm. And when they hit 66, like they did over the weekend, people around here start thinking about shorts and tank tops, and they order Frappuccinos by the bucketful. Yesterday I saw a girl who had gone from thinking about it to actually doing it--and it was only 52.
Everyone knows that winter's not over. It'll come back and sock us with a big one, most likely. But in the meantime, may I leave you with the public service announcement:
No, folks. It is not summer. And we really don't actually enjoy making Frappuccinos. Also if we run out of plastic cups, it's not our fault.