What’s the weather like where you are? If it’s snowing you better duck, because my friend, the barrel-fisted party girl, might just hurl one right at you. All day long she’s been listening to people whine about the ice, wind, cold and snow in many parts of the country as if this, the jingle bell season, isn’t supposed to have any of that. Then there are those right here in South Carolina that can’t seem to hush up about our lack of snow storm, as if something in the freak category is worth ruining their day over. (She told me to tell you that you are carrying on like a bevy of pantywaist meteorologists. You know who you are!)
She would never admit it, but having been a southern resident for eleven years had softened her former attitude towards winter weather. When she left the Northeast, she swore up and down that she didn’t care if she saw another snowflake as long as she lived. Fur and heavy velvets? Didn’t care if she saw them again either. She did openly miss wearing cute suede boots and fuzzy sweaters which she purchased optimistically every few years at Target, and of course her wardrobe of vintage muffs. But a decade plus of living in the land of heat and humidity had changed her. Perhaps a gene of long forgotten Nordic heritage had reared it’s head from the massive confusion of her personal gene pool.
No doubt a real pioneer woman in search of her birthright weather would have hopped on a one-horse open sleigh and headed north. But our battle axe knew that steely determination alone wouldn’t carry her far with the friction of black top highway. Plus she needed to be home in time to make dinner, or at least call for take-out. So even though it was 70 degrees outside, she overdressed in fur and heavy velvets in a fit of optimism. Praying she didn’t offend any environmentalists, she then turned on her remote control fireplace and switched the heat pump to air conditioning. She settled in for a stretch of rotting her brain with television. She threw back her head in laughter when a pack of visiting golfers spoke of the wind and rain as if it were personal on the local news. Then everyone on The Weather Channel seemed extra energized, but not necessarily in a good way, hell bent on convincing their viewing audience that the weather was unusually extreme. Ignoring the menace of them, she looked out the window and squinted, pretending the rain drops she saw were snowflakes.
An ice pick she favored had long been of grave concern to her husband. Finally it was going to be put to use.
She grabbed some ice from the freezer and hacked away at it on the kitchen counter. It was melting fast, but not fast enough to deprive her of a hard earned prize: one lone, dense and dangerous ball of frozen liquid.
(Duck! You know who you are.)
Yes, I’m feeling much better. I also need to get the heck out of the house.
Happy PFF! Visit the lovely Marie at The French Factrice for more “going postal” experiences!