It's Spring . . . Or Not

March 20, 2011, at 7:21 P.M. (E.D.T), according to the almanac.  (I don't know which almanac; what am I, the Shell Answer Man?  If you get that joke, you're way too old.)  The almanac says it was here on that date and time.  To the minute.  It's printed on paper, for crying out loud!  How much more set in stone could it be?  Well, that's a mixed metaphor, but it is also beside the point.

The vernal equinox.  Here, I'm better explaining with pictures.

Get the Picture?

It has officially been Spring for nearly a week.  So why, may I ask, have the temperatures plummeted to well below freezing, and snow is falling (as I write, but probably not as you read) in the southern Hoosier latitudes?  What is the deal here?  At the beginning of this week, we had 70-degree weather. Now we don't even top 40 degrees.  (Fahrenheit, not Celsius, which we Yanks still call Centigrade.  They [Celsius and Centigrade] are almost, but not quite, the same thing.  See here.  We Americans try never to keep up with the rest of the world.)  To put it as precisely as possible, this bites.  Big time.  In fact, it frostbites.

You may not notice the bone-aching chilliness in the air, but we roving reporters, who must spend most of our time outdoors to track down those exciting stories you're expecting with your poached egg and burnt toast, are cold to the core.  Which begs the question:  why "poached" eggs?  Did somebody steal them before they were cooked?  Isn't that what poachers do?  You don't think anybody poached the eggs in our Library's incubator, do you?  No, it couldn't be; since the Knight in Shining Armor took up residence by the MPL Youth Services Information Desk, you can't get within a hundred feet of that thing.  Anyway, the chicksoons are growing already in those eggs, and people don't eat eggs after that starts happening.  (Neither do I, by the way.  I'm a canned-tuna-in-oil type of feline gal.)

So, in short, it's below-freezing cold out here, and there are no warm fires burning anywhere close to moi that could provide live-preserving warmth and comfort.  Of course, there are fires burning at some homes around town.  Not to name any names, but you know who you are.  How many invites do you think came my way?  If you said the proverbial goose-egg, then you're right on the mark.  Even those faux fireplaces at my Library, which, you may recall, I mentioned in previous blogs, would be preferable to this Ides Icicles of March nonsense.

That one fireplace, which sits at the north end of my Library's grand hall (or chamber or piano or something grand), between the MPL Giving Tree and MPL Directors' Mug Shots, actually produces real, warm, cozy heat.  So why am I not lying directly in front of this catnapper's paradise?  Two words: no fob.  Why not?  Two more words:  Boss Lady.

Library staff ordinarily have key fobs by which to gain ingress at the staff door.  Fobs looks something like this:

  Typical Key Fob Like Many of Our Library Staff Carry

These fobs emit some sort of supersonic, high-frequency, you-can't-hear-it-but-I-can electronic signal that triggers the staff door's locking mechanism, so that the door magically unlocks and allows staff to enter.  Staff, that is, except moi.  I have no fob, because Boss Lady won't give me one.  Why?  This will knock your socks off; it's because I don't have trouser pockets or purses (or, like Scowl-Face, fanny packs), in which to carry one around.  Hey, wait a tick--remember this photo of moi?

Tell Moi Honestly--Is That Not a Fanny Pack, or What?

Clearly, I have a fanny pack.  If having someplace to stash one's key fob is a prerequisite for issuance of same, then I obviously qualify.  The logic is irrefutable.

So, Boss Lady, the only choice left to be made is the fob color.  Grey is okay, but I prefer jet black, for obvious reasons.  Just leave mine in Scowl-Face's mailbox.  Then I can come into the Library after hours and sit before the roaring fire (well, the fire's fake, but the heat is quite real and soooo relaxing).  Of course, one of my colleagues will need to be present to serve me warm beverages (like moo-juice warmed in a saucer near the fire) and some of those delightful sandwiches you eat with your paws.  Volunteers?  I'm thinking Queen Settler.  She makes really tasty sandwiches.

No Mustard, By the Way,

Cauli Le Chat

MPL Roving Reporter

After-Hours Roaming News Beat

P.S.  Enjoy "Fire!" by the Crazy World of Arthur Brown (1967), as shown on the British television program Top of the Pops (1968).   Some reviewers called this "Black Metal" before there was "Heavy Metal," but at the time of release, it was categorized as psychedelic rock.  Labels are not terribly important; whether or not it sounds cool is the thing.  You be the judge.