It would seem that I, Elly Lonon, am the only person on the face of the planet that doesn’t like snow. Well I just don’t. And no amount of cutesy photos of kids making snow angels or tweets about your dog’s icy paws is going to change my mind, damnit. So suck it, snow lovers – you bitches are crazy.
Even my husband (the TRAITOR) interrupted yesterday’s intense brainstorming session (yes, I was totally about to solve the clean energy crisis) by dancing a little jig in his polar bear covered boxers and singing “I love the snow” to the tune of Madonna’s “Borderline.” I somehow resisted the compulsion to throw my mug of green tea at his shimmying ass, but just barely. He’s lucky my fingers were too cold to work properly.
In my mind, Hell isn’t some fiery molten burning pit. It’s an arctic tundra with constantly falling snow and howling winds. And Rod Stewart is my only companion.
Snow isn’t just cold; it’s wet, icky and treacherous – like Joe Lieberman. The only way I’ll voluntarily interact with crushed ice is served in a cocktail glass with a disproportionally large splash of alcohol and a tiny paper umbrella, preferably served to me by a well tanned, shirtless waiter on a tropical beach. I damn sure don’t want ice sprinkling into my collar, or drifting over the tops of my boots, or burying my car, or making my stoop treacherous, or…you know…generally wreaking havoc on my very existence. I’ll say it again. Boo. Hiss.
My little chemo addled brain feels like a drunken hamster trapped in a spinning exercise ball when I try to understand the people that willingly travel to cold destinations in search of snow. Vail? Aspen? Tahoe? What the HELL is wrong with these people? Then after spending large amounts of money and effort to reach said wintry destination, they plan their itineraries to maximize their interactions with the sub-arctic temperatures.
If someone drugged and kidnapped me, then I woke up at one of those hideous ski resort places, I’d hole up in the hot tub and drink my weight in hot toddies and Baileys-infused hot chocolate until the preheated taxi was idling at the front door to take me to the airport. I damn sure wouldn’t ride some crazy lift through the frigid air, strap a pair of 2×4’s to my feet, then hurl myself down an ice covered mountain. As my Appalachian kin say – That don’t make no sense.
Ok, I’ll admit it’s amusing to see the drunks flopping around in Times Square, attempting to make snow angels between the piles of vomit and yellow snow, but that loses its appeal after four hours, tops. It’s also nice when everyone with half a brain runs home to hide, and the normally swarming streets of NYC are able to stretch languidly down the length of the island in their absence. Being the only set of footprints on Broadway doesn’t happen very often, nor last very long. Ten minutes? Maybe fifteen? Then you’re left with mucky slushy ick for weeks to come. It’s been a long time since I’ve done accounting, but even I can see the cost-benefit ratio there is not good. Not good at all, people.
You snow lovers wouldn’t buy a pair of pants that lifted and squeezed your ass into the perfect replica of a nineteen year old Heidi Klum butt for the first half hour, then morphed your booty into an imitation of Susan Boyle’s rump in water-logged Depends for the following six days. Wait, would you? You’re willing go out and “play” in the wet and cold. Clearly your decisions are driven by something other than logic and sanity. Maybe you would go and buy those ridiculous mythical pants. I’m done trying to reason with you crazy masochists. That’s it. We’re breaking up.
It’s not even technically winter yet and even more snow is on the way. I’m never going to make it, people. I’m not leaving my house again until May.
Here are some photos of funky NYC snow, merely seven hours after falling. It’s disgusting already. I’ll say it one more time: Snow = Ick. Boo. Hiss.