There’s a phenomenon around here that those of you in places like Illinois and Pennsylvania or freaking Canada just won’t understand. It’s called The Snow Promise.
It works like this:
On any given winter day–say a Tuesday–the anchor woman looks at the weather guy with a glint in her eye and flirtatiously says:
“I hear we might be in for a little change in the weather.”
Weather guy replies:
“Well…it’s really too early to say for sure but…stay tuned and see what the end of the week will bring.”
After the commercials, the weather guy starts talking about a pimple on a cloud in the jet stream over Idaho that just might make it to Tennessee four days from now. And if that pimple grows…and if the jet streams takes a Southern dip…and if we all stand on one leg and hop around the couch three times while saying the Pledge of Allegiance backwards…we could see up to … wait for it … a half inch of snow! Only they don’t call it snow…they call it “the white stuff.” Because that’s what comes out of pimples right?
(Sorry–I’m a little obsessed by pimples at the moment–I grew two on my chin in about 15 minutes Wednesday.)
Now that we have an official forecast for a distinct possibility that it might snow, all other conversations cease.
Stock market drops 250 points–who cares? Hey, did you hear it might snow?
A woman with no job, no husband and no home gives birth to eight kids–so what? Schools will be closed for sure.
Famine…plague…pestilence–doesn’t matter. I’ve got to get to Krogers now.
You think grocery shopping the day before Thanksgiving is bad? Just venture into any Southern store when a hint of snow is in the forecast. For some reason, the people around here are fixated on bread and milk. Evidently they are the two must-have items. Personally, I don’t get it. Snow prep at my house means beer and cat food. We’re happy. The cat’s happy.
Tomorrow night it might snow. Actually, it’ll be a full-on blizzard since they’re saying it might be OVER AN INCH. But we’ll survive. It’ll melt 16 minutes after it falls.