Frost Files, Episode 11:

A chilling wind, wrapped in a bracing casing of arctic frigidity whips through the street. The wind is so cold it has to come in fragmented segments, each one walloping pedestrians like an iced battering ram. Cold, so cold. Not even as cold as it’s going to get, but still so cold that your blue lips look like the screw-top caps on bottled water bottles. Like fresh blueberries, if blueberries could even survive and thrive in sub-zero temperatures.

The mail box is just across the street – deceivingly close, yet miles away when your breath solidifies with each expulsion. Solidifies, gasps in sheer horror, and collapses onto the pavement, only to shatter like the denials of wrongdoing from Tiger Woods' publicity group.

I’ve strapped a portable heater to my back, but suddenly realize that to avoid burning myself, even through my industrial strength parka, I’ve had to point the fan away, essentially heating the air behind me, as I slowly trudge towards the mail box. I can feel the extension cord holding me back, like a wise life preserver. Or it has frozen into an orange baton, and will snap with each step I take away from the house.

Just steps from my door, I see through the collected ice caked over my eye lashes – some fool walking his dog. Smiling. Waving. Obviously delusional from hypothermia. Do I keep going, or turn back to the safety of my home? Think man, think!!!

NEXT:

Garbage Day, and Mrs. That Dan Guy doesn’t believe my assertion that there is a mobile shoe vendor outside on the curb. Will I have to take out the garbage myself, or can I roll it down the driveway?

Chow for now…