Weatherpeople are teases. They are the girl in high school who loved to make out and grind with all the boys but would never let them get under her shirt. They are the boy in college who would constantly call you and tell you how beautiful you were but would never kiss you and would run away if you mentioned the "b" word. Yes, I know he was gay, but I was naive. Geez, people, I went to Catholic school.
I want to live in a place that gets snow. Lots and lots of snow. But I live here, in the city that fears snow like LA fears an earthquake, like New York fears Midwesterners on vacation. A potential dusting causes an orgy of dire prophesies from newscasters and portentious warnings from the police force to not drive if at all possible and to tape the windows and have candles ready.
I have yet to see a snowfall here that lasts for more than 12 hours and that actually sticks to the road, but you would never know that from the way the weatherpeople are speaking in terrified, quivering voices and throwing dramatic charts up on the news screens. It's like they can see the end of times approaching on the Doppler radar, sweeping up from Tacoma like the four horsemen of the Apocalypse.