The Perfidy of Weather Forecasters


Things are not at their best in my household lately. I'm at turns snappish and anguished. I'm frustrated and angry. In short, I feel betrayed. I've tried to ignore this desperate feeling, but it simply won't go away. I've tried to be reasonable and understanding, but it's no use. It's not a man that inspires such feelings in me, it's those damn weather forecasters. Oh, I know. It's a difficult profession. They can't be perfect. I get that. Intellectually I appreciate that the weather is a challenge to predict, especially here. Emotionally though, it's another story.

Last week was the absolute straw that broke the camel's back. The forecasters were sure that we'd have snow. Nice amounts of snow for this area. It wasn't a question of "if", it was a question of "how much". Bet you can guess how much we got. Nothing. Not a thing. Zip. The forecasters scurried about and published elaborate explanations as to why the "can't miss" snow missed, but their real reason for such hurried explanations was clear. They were concerned that the numerous disappointed residents of the state would revolt and storm the television and radio studios, demanding that someone, somewhere attain god status and accurately predict the weather.


I thought I was over my disappointment. I thought I was finally able to accept the bald truth. I live in an area that just doesn't get much snow. There. I've said it. The days of my youth spent in ice skates and on sleds are not going to be duplicated by my own children. Hot chocolate with marshmallows drank while your nose is red and your fingers begin to tingle as they warm up is just a nice story for my children. I've bravely opted to pretend that I like seeing all this green in January. Just as I felt secure in my acceptance, they did it again. They're calling for snow again on Tuesday. Ha. Yeah right. Sure. It'll happen. They won't get me to hope again. I'm rock solid.


Maybe though, just in case, I ought to make sure we have enough hot chocolate in the house . . .