Most of the time, when I complain about the weather in Phoenix, I’m fully aware that I’m being a complete and total weather pussy. I grew up in Chicago, where wind and cold conspire to turn every day activities, like pumping gas, into life-threatening ordeals the likes of which are usually confined to a Jack London novel. So I should know better when I complain about an 80 degree day in March with no clouds in the sky because, “it’s just a little too warm for hiking.” I’ve got friends on the East Coast who have had so much snow this winter that they’ve had to leave their home via the attic and use their frozen grandmother’s corpse as a makeshift sled in a desperate bid to get food and medicine, but I’m down here getting tweaked because snakes are slightly more active when the temperatures hit 80. No word yet on whether or not they’ll film the next season of Survivor at my house. Continue reading