In order to improve his connection with 'the kids,' he has recently changed his name to P. Philly

Puxatawny Phil is a lying bastard.

Okay, so this may be a little harsh, but you can't help but notice that the nasty Ice Age renaissance we've been seeing around here lately was oddly coincidental with the groundhog's rosy prediction for the upcoming season. Not that it wasn't already cold, but it certainly wasn't ass-numbing, holy-crap-I-can't-feel-my-face cold. That all started after we were promised an early Spring.

But then, perhaps it's less a lying rodent than a ticked-off Mother Nature giving the world's only nonhuman weatherman the finger (you'll note that the nonhuman variety is roughly as reliable a predictor as his human counterparts). She appears to be saying, "Early Spring? Early Spring?!? Are you kidding? You had an early Spring. It was called 'January.' Did you forget that I gave you blooming trees at Christmastime, you ingrate? No appreciation. No, 'Thanks, Ma, that was great, whatever you want to do is fine with me.' Of course not. You want the early Spring, too. Fine. Maybe, just maybe, I'll give it to you, but I'm going to park your scruffy behind in the freezer section for a while first. Suck on that popsicle, Chuckles." And of course, we all have to suffer for the groggy musings of the world's most famous garden pest (maybe second-most, behind his much funnier cousin from "Caddyshack"). I say he should just leave the incorrect guessing to the professionals.

Maybe I'm being overly sensitive. Maybe that has something to do with the fact that, in a 30-second span while trying to fill out a deposit envelope last night at the bank, my fingers went from relatively warm in my gloves to stinging-and-barely-moving, with barely any transition in between. And this was without wind. That might be it. But I've had roughly the same thought for the past week or so, as I lean into the wind on my walk from the metro to work and back.

Stupid groundhog.