If you could have heard me ranting and raving this weekend through the windows of my home, you’d be shocked to hear me bellowing the “f” word, but I’m not sorry. Frost in May is putting a chill on my warm, kind, loving soul.

Enough. Frost it. I’m done.

I’ve done everything in my power to stay positive, to keep a happy disposition, to play nice with others from a safe distance, and not lose my sense of humour throughout the last year and a half. You relate. It’s not easy. But this weekend, I snapped. And since everyone else likes to blame the media for everything under the sun, it’s my turn. The weather person declared not one, but three frost warnings this weekend and then they followed up with three nasty words for the week ahead: below seasonal temperatures. I shiver just thinking about that phrase.

Honestly, I was having a lovely calm morning, folding a heaping mound of still warm laundry on my bed while watching my Saturday news coverage. I enjoy this time to catch up on international and national news and my favourite topic of Canadian politics. Nobody in my household interrupts my news watching, probably because they are afraid they’d have to help me with laundry. Match socks. Stack towels. Sort piles. Fluff, fold and fret about the status of the world. Saturday morning bliss. Until the weatherperson popped in with an update and dropped the “f” bomb. Frost. They issued that with a warning: cover up your plants.

You know the story of Chicken Little running around declaring that the sky was falling? Okay, so picture that, only the chicken is me, in my stretch pants and an over-stretched football shirt with frazzled not-even-sure-what-colour-it-is-anymore hair in a messy pony tail running around the house yelling to anyone who would listen, “we’re getting frost tonight, cover up the plants. ”

I flew up the two flights of stairs like I was fit enough to do so, (I was not). The Carpenter, whose hearing is questionable, (as is his desire to listen), watched me bust into the living room like a blast of cold air. He looked up from his newspaper, puzzled by my obvious distress. Clearly he’d missed my announcement.

“Frost. Frost is coming,” I spouted out, clearly exasperated from two flights of stairs, (there are only eight stairs in total, but who’s counting?).

Our eyes met. I knew he heard me this time. Just like that, I energetically transferred the panic from my body to his. After all, he planted the sweet bell peppers last week. They were doomed.

He reached for his mobile phone to search Twitter to verify that my breaking news was fact, (seriously, a decade in media and I’m still fact-checked, but whatever). He uttered just one fateful word: frost. His face fell. He uttered another “f” word. I can’t type that one here.

This cold is putting a serious damper on my desire to learn gardening. It’s May, it’s supposed to be a month of blossoms and blooms. So, with loving kindness I say to Jack Frost, it’s time for you to frost off. Giggle.

I feel better already.

Let’s get gardening.

WriteOut of Her Mind