We reside in a cozy house situated neatly on the eastern shore of a lake in the southernmost reaches of the far-north city of Minneapolis. If you're familiar with Minneapolis, you know that it's a funky, cool, progressive, beautiful city with a funny accent, an abundance of flannel-clad hipsters, and a lot of quirk. If you're not familiar with Minneapolis, I owe it to you to disclose that in our lexicon of local celebrities, you'll find a couple of television meteorologists.
It's really strange, I know. But they're not there because we don't have anyone actually cool to admire. On the contrary, we've spawned a number of rather iconic individuals, like Bob Dylan and Judy Garland and the Coen Brothers. No one's asking Prince to be the keynote speaker at their gala events, though, and it's not just 'cause he's really flippin' strange. We'd just rather spend our time with that guy or gal from [insert your favorite channel here].
I have a theory about this.
The climate here has the potential to be vicious in its extremes, and we mere mortals are entirely at its mercy. Except that there are these weather dudes and dudettes who somehow just sorta know what's coming next...with a huge emphasis on the "sorta." It's like they have a static-filled line in to whatever higher power decides it's time for baseball-sized hail. And if they really have face-time or whatever with the weather deities, then maybe they have some clout, see? Maybe they could chat us up with Thor, and convince him to, you know, blow the snow into Richfield instead? It's like climatological social networking. Or junior high.
If you don't live here, you might not understand why your Minnesota friends make such a big $%&@ deal about the weather. To us, it's obvious: It snowed yesterday. Like, a lot. Now I have to figure out where to park my car until Monday night. Except that it's buried in a four-foot drift. But plows can't get down the streets because they're not plowed. And they can't tow cars off of the streets so that plows can get through because it's too deep to get the tow trucks in until they plow.
The net-net is that if you're from Minneapolis, everyone you know just spent seven hours shoveling little Habitrail paths for themselves, just so they could move their cars to the even side of the street. It sucks. And that is why we talk about the weather.
When I was a kid, I aspired to be a local celebrity meteorologist. I envisioned myself pointing effortlessly at a Chroma-key, gesturing naturally as I described this week's incoming low-pressure system in an informative-yet-engaging manner. I imagined our at-home viewers chortling aloud at my playful on-air banter with the anchors, their guffaws causing them to nearly choke on the frozen pizza they were noshing from their perch on the couch. In this fantasy, I singlehandedly forecasted the weather with unparalleled 80% accuracy. I wanted it all.
When I was 12, I was given the opportunity to spend an afternoon "shadowing" the iconic Paul Douglas, the Twin Cities genius who brilliantly pioneered--get this--outdoor weather broadcasts. He was the rock-star of the weather world, with a crisply starched shirt, receding hairline, and buttery-smooth voice. My mom took me shopping for a new pink silk shirt to wear to the KARE-11 studio, and I was sweating so hard from nervousness that I completely pitted out by the time my mother dropped me off. So deep was my awe for Mr. Douglas that I couldn't speak a word the whole time I was there. I just sat in his office, on a stool, staring. I must have seemed terribly creepy to him, dripping with perspiration and mute.
Whether it's "wear layers" or "bring an umbrella", those damned TV weather people always have a point. Seriously. How do they do it?
This winter, we've been treated to the kind of snow I remember from my childhood. The kind that does things like this:
This weekend, my parents got snowed in at our house, so the extended Waffle-Clan spent the weekend baking Christmas cookies, playing with dogs, and shoveling. But that's not the only gift given me by this blizzard.
Though I never have lived my dream of becoming a charismatic major-market television weather personality, this weekend also gave me an opportunity to report on the storm from my perspective.
Here are some neighborhood storm statistics:
Neighborhood Snow Total: Around 18 inches, according to Paul Douglas
Number of People Snowed In At Our House: 6
Number of People Snowed Out Of Our House: 1 (Sorry, Waffle Guy. We missed you.)
Total Dogs Snowed In At Our House: 4
Total Hours Spent Snowed In: 39
Cookie Recipes Used: 4
Total Cookies Made: Approximately 17 dozen
Total Cookies Stolen By Dogs: Approximately 1 dozen
Snow Angels Made:12
Snow Angels Visible After All the Snow had Fallen: 0
Hours Spent Shoveling: 7
Metric Tons of Snow Shoveled: Infinity
See? I can do it. No sweat.
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