Forty Degrees.

See? Make a big deal of it and this is what you get: Leaden overcast to open the day, leaden overcast to shut it back down again. When the sun was out earlier there was maybe some hint of hope, but also it was so cold—comparatively, anyway—that it didn't matter, and standing in the wind tunnel of a parking lot over at the smaller Harris Teeter all one wanted was to get back home, try for the afternoon nap, hope for some writing time inside that nap.

Toad nap duration: Thirty-three minutes. Pages revised: Two. Forecast mood: Leaden.

If I hadn't known better I'd have said this morning's sky looked like snow.

Successes, however small: We have olive oil, which I bought at Olive Oil Depot. I have new line-marking pens, which I bought at Ink Pen Depot. I have eaten a banana. That was already in the house, so I cannot attest to the depoted provenance of same. I'm trying the Toad for a second afternoon nap, as the first one was a joke. That endeavor, though it's not yet succeeding, has also not quite yet failed.

Looking ahead? Aren't we all? Tomorrow: Chilly and Januaryish. Thursday: Tornadoes? Ah, spring. Or whatever this is. And there's the sun back out, however briefly. Maybe it just slipped beneath the clouds off to the west. This is both seasons concurrently. This is the bluejays building nests, the squirrels trying to get back into the building, the daffodils showing color, the woodpile looking meager. This is all the clothes all the time. This weather is for both bad beer and good beer. If the Toad doesn't end up napping, I'll be aiming at each of those.