Sunday, December 20, 2009

We Owe Everything to Bing

I hope all of the White Christmas-whistling morons who live - as do I - at some location in the Northeastern United States are happy now. Did you awaken this morning telling yourself, "Wow it really does look a lot like Christmas!" and begin looking in earnest for your VHS copy of "It's A Wonderful Life" to watch while snuggled up under your blankey sipping cocoa? Or did you wake up this morning and do what I did and pretty much everyone else either you or I know did - throw on some foul-weather gear and begin the process of redistributing all of the snow that was - at dawn - occupying space formerly occupied by your driveway?

I went to law school in pursuit of a career that would best mask my arithmetic limitations so asking me "How much snow did you get?" is like asking me how many children makes up a set of sextuplets. I can guess. I might even get it right but both of us would be better served if you asked someone else instead. I know that at certain spots in my backyard this morning the snow was so deep that Rosalita - my Shetland Sheepdog - almost completely disappeared while she was negotiating the back country looking for a spot to......well, let's just say, "to do the voodoo that she does so well" and leave it at that. Of course, she is not especially tall and she is extraordinarily stealthy so her disappearing act is likely not the most accurate measuring stick.

You also do not want to ask me the whole, "Hey how much snow did you get?" question because as someone who detests snow, my answer is always the same, "More than I wanted." Once upon a time I skied. I have not done so in years. I have a number of friends who enjoy skiing and I know that among my two kids Rob at least is both an enthusiastic and accomplished skier. I begrudge neither those who ski or those who earn their living operating facilities where those who ski gather for that purpose all of the snow they need to enjoy their pursuit and to earn their living. I do not earn my living operating such a place and - based upon the amount of time I spend running in the morning through the streets here 'NTSG I am confident in stating for the record that Middlesex Boro has no ski facilities located anywhere within its geographical limits. Thus, snow here is what it probably is at your house - a real pain in the ass that makes getting from Point A to Point B (feel free to insert "Home" and "Work" in "Point A" and "Point B" respectively) more of a chore than usual.

Go ahead - shake your head in disbelief at the realization that I must be some sort of Christmas spirit-challenged Atheist (and then again when you discover that you are probably at least half right). How dare anyone not feel the spirit of the season when the ground around us is nestled under a blanket of more than twelve inches of fluffy white snow? Newsflash. My alarm clock will go off as per usual tomorrow morning and then I - like you and like countless others just like us - will have to make THE pilgrimage. The one to work, not the one to a barn or manger (or even Bethlehem Pennsylvania unless that is where we work). And this morning's blanket of nestleness will be tomorrow morning's black ice baseline. Forgive me if looking out my window this morning did not give me a warm, fuzzy feeling inside.

One final thing to chew on before you resume your planned activity of sinking mini-marshmallows in your cocoa while looking out at your winter wonderland; a final "White Christmas" question for you. Ready? If Bing Crosby loved the possibility of a white Christmas so much, then why did he live in Southern California?

Shovel well my friends - shovel well.


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