We live in a
part of the country that gets hit by big storms this time of year. I expect that. Not embrace,
so much, just expect and tolerate.
What I did
not expect, and have some difficulty tolerating (or even understanding) is this
new thing the meteorologists like to call, “wintry mix.” The cute blond weather girl bobs her head up
and down, cheerfully explaining that we must have our ice scrapers at the ready
because she anticipates a “wintry mix” on Saturday. She smiles as if someone has just told her
she won a new car. Smile, smile, enthusiastic
nod, wintry mix.
I’m not even
sure I am spelling it correctly. Is it “wintry”
or “wintery” or “wintree”? It’s hard to
spell something when you don’t know what the heck it is.
I do what I
always do when I want information but am too lazy to type it into Google: I ask The Husband.
“What’s this
‘wintry mix’ all about?”
“What do you
mean?” He stops reading his book and gives
me a look as if I had asked why oranges are orange.
“Well, what
is it?”
“MOV, you
know. Snow, ice, freezing rain. Wintry mix.”
He shrugs. His shrug says Oranges are orange, don’t ask me again.
“Then why
don’t they say ‘snow, ice, freezing rain’?” I inquire thoughtfully. “That would make more sense.”
“Well, they
don’t know which one it’s going to be.
See, at certain altitudes, if the cold air is intercepted by precipitation,
then it could be hail, depending on the temperature. But if warm air is trapped under the clouds,
it might only be rain. Snow happens when
the temperature stays below 32 degrees, but it is hard to predict because if
they are even off one or two degrees, it could change.”
I was
scrunching up my face, trying to listen, but honestly he had lost me at “altitudes.” Sure, I was a flight attendant for 10 years,
but the only altitude I had to remember was 35,000 feet.
Once again,
I was being punished because I was from California. No one in California in their right mind
would say, “summery mix,” as in: a mix
of sunshine, ocean breeze, and chirpy bird noises. Summery mix is implied by the mere fact that the zip code starts with a 9 and a
2. (A 9 followed by an 8 is
Seattle. I wonder if they have “rainy
mix” there.)
I look out
the window, confused. It is pure, fluffy
snow. I want to call it “snow,” but I know
better. Wintry mix, to me, sounds like it should be some elaborate cocktail
involving vodka, Sambuca, and liquid nitrogen.
I walk in
the kitchen and am vaguely disappointed that we never purchased any liquid
nitrogen, like they always have in the pantry on my favorite TV show, Top Chef. Straight vodka would have to suffice.
Wintry mix, indeed.
MOV
