At this writing, the grumpette in charge of the weather has a psycho grouch on and it looks as though it may last for a while. Her attitude has been putting an icy twang on the holiday vibe but that comes as no shocker. She’s a temperamental spitfire who can abruptly shift from being coolly laid back to a mood darker than a spouse staring at a toolbelt and a nail gun she received as anniversary gift. Note: High danger probability marks for the nail gun offering.
This morning I watched as Kachemak Bay host snow showers to the west while laying down a freezing drizzle on our deck.
I took the weather condition disparity as personal and figured it was payback for some blistering criticism I shot at the weather witch when she brusquely turned our deftly plowed driveway into something difficult to negotiate without crampons and a death wish.
I’m starting to believe the lady has gone Sybil with profound multiple personality problems nowadays referred to as “dissociative identity disorders” by elitist intelligentsia dorks who relish changing terminology just to cheese off the lay population.
A dissociative identity disorder is characterized by the presence of two or more distinct or split identities or personality states that continually have power over the person’s behavior. Ms. Nature’s various personalities easily qualify as a howling mob of neurotics. Example: One day a moose with a 40-knot tailwind may go sliding by your front window on a glaze of ice then twelve hours later come paddling back through a pond that pops up after an uptick of forty degrees and a mini monsoon.
Hey, that’s nothing new. In late December we had to have our road plowed and then sanded in the same day. I swear I heard her sniggering in the wind.
She began teasing us in the late fall with colder winds and samples of white until she heard enough whining about the lack of snow and dumped some to keep the gang with winter toys happy. Then, recently she suddenly threw a roundhouse of hefty winds and snow to get us on the ropes. We toughed it out hoping that she wouldn’t land a foul punch of follow-up rain. It’s embarrassing trying to get to our rigs without launching into undignified face-plants while coming out of awkward pirouettes down the house steps.
A few days ago, we had one of those nefarious winter scenarios where it snowed, rained, froze and lightly snowed again sometime during the night.
When 04:30 rolled around our mutt decided she couldn’t wait for her usual run to pee paradise. So, she jumped me. Needless to say, I wasn’t at my mental or athletic best when I opened the door for her to scurry outside.
I was wearing a headlight set on a green LED glow that preserves the batteries. If I would have used the normal white spotlight, the glistening mass lurking below about a half inch of new snow would have stood out. But no, ole Save-A Few-Cents-On-Batteries Nick stepped onto the deck without spikes and into outer space.
The next thing I knew I was at the bottom of the steps with Luna staring down at me with a confused look on her mug reflecting, “Just what hell was that all about, dude? I’m on a mission here and you aren’t cutting it. I’m freezing my short-haired keister off while you are rolling around like you’re scratch’n flea bites.”
The primadonna pup’s stare wasn’t a reflection of her concern for me. She hadn’t finished her mission and, even if she had, I was the only one who knew how to get her back into the cabin. So, she waited impatiently while I checked myself for exposed bone and/or excessive bleeding before standing upright with assistance of the steps’ railing. Once that was accomplished, we proceeded to her bladder blaster zone via an ice-free path and returned to the cabin’s entrance by way of steps freshly coated with a layer of Ice Melt liberally applied by yours truly from a stash sequestered at the base of the deck ramp.
My wife just stared at me when I related my woeful tale after she came down for her morning coffee. I could see it in her eyes that, if it had been her, she was certain that Luna would have tested the footing, retrieved her some cleats and cleared a trail down the steps. But that’s another story.
Nick can be reached at firstname.lastname@example.org if he isn’t still trying to get his Christmas gift of mega cleats to fit over his sasquatch-sized boots. His next challenge will be trying lift the gear off the ground to go anywhere.