Wiarton Willy never needed a PFD

A lot going on since my last post of any substance -- the Palestinian elections, the start of the Liberal leadership race, this whole business of Simon walking out on Paula and Randy. All hugely important issues. So, naturally, I'm not going to talk about any of them.

No, I want to talk about the weather. Specifically, I want to say a few words about the goddamn, record-breaking, soak-you-to-your-ginch, take-your-dog-out-for-a-float, complete bitch and/or bastard of a January we've just endured here on the West Coast. (WC for short. As in "Water Closet". No coincidence.) And, as I've resolved to cut down on my cussing for 2006, let's just say that most of those few words are covered here.

Just how bad has it been? Well, I highly doubt that the groundhog will see his shadow tomorrow, because while the bloated carcass of a waterlogged rat might cast a shadow, the rat tends not to see it.

That's right -- our little meteorological marmot is probably dead. Drowned. His wee gopher life-force washed away.

I mean, how could he not be? With the daily deluge these past weeks, I'm thinking his once cozy little burrow probably turned into an aquatic chamber-of-doom round about Robbie Burns Day. So unless the little bugger is either a GMO groundhog-guppy hybrid or the rodent reincarnation of Houdini, the only thing we'll be able to predict from him tomorrow morning is the likelihood that we need new groundhog. That, and the probability of maggots.

You know, I was going to post this bad news earlier today, but then it got sunny. And, after all, as anyone who's ever visited from out of town has been told by a local -- it's almost never like this. Well, January is usually shitty, but never this bad. No, this is more November weather. Okay, October's not great either -- but it's really more a mist than a rain. And December's pretty moist, I'll give you that. Then we get the wet season from February to May. Um... August, August is nice. Except for the occasional shower.

I, like most Vancouverites, have this dysfunctional relationship with the weather. We can get pissed on for weeks, and then when the clouds clear for a measly half-day, it's all we can do to not have our collective rain memory wiped clear. It's like that girl we've all known -- her boyfriend treats her like crap about 98% of the time, but then all is forgiven when he buys her a $2.99 bouquet of carnations or takes her out for "fancy eats" at Whitespot. It's like: "Oh, my dear Vancouver Weather, my lawn is all moss and mushrooms, and I'll need a mini-sub to recover my patio furniture. But that eight minutes of sunshine this morning was simply divine. And are those Portabello mushrooms? Oh, how can I stay mad at you?"

But if you're not from here and you happen to visit, bring an umbrella. And a groundhog with a lifejacket. Because it's raining now. Again. Always.

So I'm thinking of moving to someplace with better weather. Like Winnipeg (it's cold, but it's a dry cold). Or maybe St. John's.

Unless, of course, I get some flowers out of this. Then I'm good.


UPDATE: I forgot to mention, the Groundhog Day's Eve party has been cancelled. You show up at my door with a stuffed squirrel, and I'm calling the cops and the humaine society.

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