Are We There Yet? January: The winter of her personal discontent LORI CLINCH Ihate January. Although we're bound to see commercials with an adorable snow bunny that's blushing at the prospect of the new fallen snow, I'm here to contend that January is not cute, not trendy and is the worst month of the year. First off, there's the weather. It's nasty, it's frigid, and the view out my kitchen window is nothing short of glacial. Oh, and the cold, dear Lord, the cold. I had heard that it was supposed to be 35 degrees today and then some dirty dog went and switched it to a high of 25. Have they no shame? These things aren't an issue in August. Not only that, but no sooner had I just pulled in from a sleigh ride with bells a jing-jing-jingling, ring-ring-ringling too, when I was sequestered to the office. The last bells have barely been jingled and yet I have to pull all of the old files from the old year, put in new ones and then, heaven help me, start in on all of the taxtype preparations. While just a short time ago I was hanging tinsel and making merriment, suddenly I'm adding this and subtracting that and then dividing by 12 while carrying the nine and hoping against all hope that the checks and balances reconcile with everything else. It's a tough job for a gal such as me, who not only dislikes numbers but also has issues with story problems as well as problematic people. The worst part is that I despise math. Everybody knows that. In fact, I informed my husband of this about 30 seconds into our relationship. I said, "Hi, my name is Lori and I hate math." I don't have to worry about hating math in June. Worse yet, I already got a notice that the insurance people want to do an audit on the 15th, to which I politely declined. Oh sure, it would have been nice if I had agreed and offered up a, "You bet, not a problem, stop in anytime!" But truth be known, nice as they are, I don't like insurance auditors any more than I like the problematic story problem people. Did I mention that I hate January? Not only does it involve cold and math but, heaven help me, it's always my fat month. Park me in an office chair and my fat cells multiply by the boatload. If January lasted more than four weeks, I swear I'd weigh in at a robust 300 pounds! To add insult to injury, each and every commercial contains a thin and svelte 19-year-old woman who cries ever so endlessly about her recent weight gain of 10 pounds, followed by her (someone grab me a hankie) growth from a size 3 to a size 4 pants. Yes, praise the powers that be, this young woman can once again celebrate life in her tiny little jeans. And to think that only three short months ago, she was shamelessly hiding behind Shamu and riddled with embarrassment at the prospect of hanging in public in her fat size 4 pants. Now, thanks to prepackaged meals and a bottomless checking account, she not only looks like a model but she plays one on TV. And I'll be danged if all of my Christmas décor isn't hanging around like a buzzard-picked carcass. For reasons we may never understand, I decorated this and adorned that. I have garland strewn about, glitter galore, and I swear a snowman grabbed me by the ankles only a moment ago and begged me not to put him back in a box. Suddenly each and every person who walks in the door is stating for the record, "Oh, I see you haven't taken your Christmas down." Ya think? I think I'll brew me up a hot cup of cider and get out of the office for a while. Perhaps I'll ignore the dry air, put a sprig of holly in my static-ridden hair, build a fire on the front lawn and throw my calculator at the next snow bunny that happens by. Now THAT will make me feel better about January. Lori Clinch is the mother of four sons and the author of the book "Are We There Yet?" You can reach her at www.loriclinch.com.