Sam Isobar, Private Weatherman

News flash: winter is wintering.

When I want information on American weather, I turn of course to the BBC. Or so my Google News feed seems to think, as the Beeb was the first story on the winter weather vexing portions of this great land. Headline:

Severe winter storm puts much of US on high alert

The first paragraph notes that conditions might be difficult in Kentucky and Virginia. No offense to my British friends - sorry, no offence - but these two states, combined, are larger than the entire United Kingdom mainland. When we read stories about storms on the sceptered isle, which we do not, because we do not particularly care, we do not imagine that the entirety of Great Britain is lashed with hail or scoured by the darting bolts of lightning. But the BBC reader might think that everyone in these states is huddled in the dark while vicious winds howl in the downspouts and the snow piles over the eaves. My favorite sentence in the report:

In parts of the Midwest, blizzards are possible.

Yes. Yes, they are indeed.

I am watching this storm with amusement and gratitude, because it’s not hitting my part of Minnesota. We got the Polar Vortex cold, which is invariably described as bitter. I don’t know why. There is nothing about it that suggests unresolved recriminations, or a flavor both flat and sharp. Perhaps the word was applied to reflect one’s attitude towards the circumstances that brought one here. I should also note that we never had Polar Vortexes when I was young. We just had cold air. If they wanted to get technical, it was Canadian cold air. Somehow that made it seem clean and pure, filtered through pines, even though it was probably infused with loon flatulence. We couldn’t blame Canada. It was like we had a leak in the national roof.

Now, my favorite line in the story: “Private meteorologist Ryan Maue said: ‘It's going to be a mess, a potential disaster. This is something we haven't seen in quite a while.’”

Private meteorologist.

I immediately imagined myself sitting in a slightly shabby office in an old office building, my name painted on frosted glass in the door. There was a large empty green screen behind me. I had my feet up on the desk and was considering a drink from the office bottle when the doorknob rattled. She came in like a low-pressure front - she paused, then turned around counter-clockwise as if to leave, and began to cry.

“I’m sorry,” she said. She faced me, clouds forming on her face. “It’s my husband. I think there’s a forty percent chance he will cheat on me tomorrow, with his infidelity tapering off to slight expressions of affection by four PM.”

I was interested. Mostly in her. She wore a necklace of red triangles. She looked like she’d come from a few states away. “What’s that got to do with me?” I said.

She looked confused. “The sign - on the door? It says you’re a private meteorologist.”

“I work on long-term models, not predictable short-term conditions.”

“I’ve been modeling for four years.”

“I stand corrected,” I said. “Okay, I’ll take the job. Tomorrow we’re looking at a fee with a low of $75 and a high of $95. I’ll need a few things. Do you have a recent pictures?”

“I do, but he changes his appearance a lot.”

“That’s okay. I’ll take them all and get the average over time. I didn’t catch your name, doll.”

“Sunny Precip. My husband’s name is Chance Oswald. Chance O. Precip. I’m sorry, I don’t think I can go on.”

“What’s the matter? Having second thoughts?”

“No, this whole bit. It’s getting labored.”

She’s right. Anyway, I see the ice storms hitting to the south, and I tsk-tsk and shake my head and offer thoughts and prayers. But Minnesota doesn’t care when Kansas gets buried. We figure: they’re pros, they got this. And we’ll get it soon enough. Remember, as the Beeb noted: “In parts of the Midwest, blizzards are possible.” In related news, England is, on occasion, overcast.