Heading out to work today, something was amiss. The pavement was damp from an early morning shower and a breeze was whistling down the street as it often does given the temperamental wont of the Hudson River. The sky was lit in graduations of red, like a paint color sample swatch. These things are all perfectly normal, but it was balmy, like a morning stroll in Bali. Something is going on here. Did Manhattan relocate below the Equator as I slept last night?

Naw, El Nino is making his devilish presence felt again.

I remember you, you naughty imp, from 2002. That was the year we barely got any snow and you know, that sort of sucked. The weather here in the last two months has shuffled between the 50s and 60s. Today it was 60 degrees. It's supposed to be almost 70 degrees tomorrow. No wonder the hapless cherry and apricot trees in the region's botanical gardens are breaking into bloom. This date also marks another dubious record; this is the first time since 1877 that there hasn't been any recorded snow in Central Park this season. Not even a damned flurry. Wrong, people, wrong.

Before I made the migration East, the first thing everyone asked me was, "Aren't you worried about the snow?" Seriously. For West Coasters, the snow is an evil menace; a calculating Medusa whose white flakes render mortal man helpless. I never felt that way. I wanted to live somewhere I could count on snow falling with regularity. I wanted to watch its slow progress of blanketing skeletal trees and barren earth. I wanted to see the landscape at night where the canvas of the snow grasped the moon's rays and rendered the whole world a soothing blue. I wanted to romp in it and roll in it and shovel it and make it my bitch. Oh no, I love the snow.

And so at the hands of global warming and those changes that have created a shift in the climate of the planet as we know it, there appears to be a bit of a wait for the snow just now.

I suppose one should be grateful for the continuation of a reluctant Fall and the money saved on the heating bill. In truth, we're ready for snow. This upsetting weather is the talk of the town; with strangers on the subway, the weird guy from 8C who always seems to be on my elevator, or the egg man at the 5th Avenue Epicurean. Majority rules--we want some snow.

One benefit of a hard winter is the simple and pure pleasure you experience at the bountiful explosion of spring. Because spring is such a breathtaking experience, I think one needs to earn it in order to fully appreciate its sacred beauty.There is no better means of doing so than slogging through a cold and bitter winter. The very notion that bulbs are already peeking up from the ground in Central Park in early January upsets this entire balance and along with it, me.

It's early yet and I'm optimistic. I've already Scotchguarded my snow boats and mukluks. The heavy winter coat and fur hood sits in the dry cleaning garment bag, ready for action. The earmuffs and gloves have migrated to the front of the closet. Winter tights are rolled in neat rows like soldiers ready for war.

To quote my friend Queen Bee--Come on bitch, Bring IT!