Friday, March 16, 2007

The Weather Whisperer

So the last time I had five minutes to myself I posted. That was during the great St. Valentine's Day eve storm. Here we are on the eve of St. Patrick's day and the weather is pretty much the same: lousy and bordering on crap.

Mark Twain famously said that everybody talks about the weather, but nobody does anything about it.

Drew Carey, aerosol bottle in hand said: "Fuck the grandkids, I'm cold now."

The cubicle rat next to me is trying to re-route her boss's plane reservations for the fourteenth time. The guy is coming in from L.A. to New Jersey. At this point, I'm advising her to put him on the red eye to Canberra and leave town immediately. It'll be weeks before they find out he's enjoying himself immensely.

But we east coast dwellers are left here, ground like so much corn between the millstones of a frozen solid February and the muds of March. There was a meeting this morning with sleet tapping on the skylights to the extent that I thought I was a rice krispy. I kept looking for three maniacal dwarfs dressed as bakers, or dwarfs. I can't remember. It's been too long since I've read a cereal box that DIDN'T tout its colon clearing qualities.

So the question is: Are we subject to sudden violent snowstorms on the eve of second tier holidays? Can't wait for the big Flag Day eve 2-6 inches we're going to get. Yes, small grandchild, I remember the Arbor Day eve blow of '07, yer gran and I were holed up in the house for three days without cable. It was a horrible thing.

The problem with today's storm is that it can't decide whether to snow, sleet, rain or all three all at the same time. The boys and I ran at lunch today and the comment was made that it was like running on the beach. If the beach were cold, wet, uphill and people were running large fans that blew thumbtacks into your face.

Maybe I'm obsessed with the weather, given the last two posts. Maybe I've had enough with a winter that seemed to lay in wait until we all got good and comfortable and somewhere in the third week of January we got it like runny instant mashed potatoes on a prison tin tray.

Maybe I feel that I've been lied to by a groundhog. When your faith in small, feral mammals is shaken, there's little else to hold on to.

Or maybe I'm dreading the big Otago eve perfect storm.

Bunny on.

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