Thursday, January 14, 2010

Getting the cold shoulder...and everyplace else...

As I write this I am in my home office, sitting in my recliner, wearing a sweatshirt, sweatpants and my slippers all toasty warm while outside the mercury in my thermometer is doing some sort of Cirque du Soleil contortionist version of the Limbo. How low can you go?

I have always said I prefer cold weather to hot weather. One reason being when it gets cold I can simply put on another layer of something to warm up, but when it is hot there is a finite number of things I can take off before anyone in the vicinity starts shrieking and running like citizens of 1950’s Tokyo escaping Godzilla. (I suppose you could say the poor people of Japan being menaced by the giant lizard were suffering from reptile dysfunction.)

I do still prefer cold weather to hot, but this is ridiculous. When the high temperature for the day equals Billy Barty’s inseam and the overnight low is a darn good golf score there is something horribly wrong. (For those readers too young to get the reference, replace the name Billy Barty with Mini Me. It will make more sense.)

Weather like this requires new terminology. I’m sorry but “wind chill” just doesn’t cut it. A chill is something you get when the air conditioner kicks on and you’re standing over the vent. When the anemometer starts spinning in Kansas and the air temperature is already a pre-adolescent number calling it a “wind chill” is like calling Sean Hannity a little conservative or saying Tiger Woods plays a little golf. (I’m not going to make another joke here about other ways to describe Tiger Woods, but feel free to do so yourself before reading on. I’ll wait.)

What should television meteorologists call it? Tonight the “wind blast” will reach seven below. Or how about, with near record lows the “wind brrrrrrrr” will drop well below zero. Let’s make it rhyme. The “wind kill” may reach dangerous levels. Actually, when it is so cold that just peering out the window and contemplating going outside causes frostbite we should simply call it the “wind forget about it”.
Due to some quirk of thermodynamics my daughter Alice’s bedroom is not affected in the slightest no matter how hard the furnace works. I am not kidding when I say we could make a few extra bucks in the winter renting out her closet as a meat locker. Needless to say this winter she has been sleeping in her sister’s room quite regularly. Who knew the secret to getting teenage sisters to get along is making one of them live in a room which makes Lambeau Field in January look like Waikiki Beach in August.

“Hey, Alice, does your bedroom have wood floors or carpet?”
“Neither, it has tundra.”

Kindergarten teachers already have many tricky and time consuming aspects to their job but weather like this means there is just enough time after the morning bell to help the munchkins out of their various coats, boots, mittens, scarves and hats to send them to lunch and then the process of getting all the stuff back on must commence in order to assure nobody misses the bus.

On a side note: There is nothing quite like the experience of spending time in a room containing 60 kindergarteners because it is too cold to go out for recess. The fire marshal would re-think his maximum occupancy rules if he had to be in a room with 60 six-year-olds. There may not be a room big enough for a high concentration of these creatures of pure impulse and action.

“OK, kids, we’re going to all go in to room 196 and sit down. Then I’ll give you the instructions on what to do next. Wait, David, don’t climb on the table…no, Tina, I didn’t know your brother’s dog could open the refrigerator door all by himself…please let go of my tie…but we just took a bathroom break…Susie, give Joe his book back…no, no, no, just hand it to…Joe, go see the nurse…”

I guess I really should look on the bright side. At least when it is this cold outside I don’t have to worry about the ice cream melting while I’m driving home from the store, even if I take a route which includes a quick stop at Bismarck, North Dakota between Dillon’s and my house.

No comments: