The weather man has been saying all week that we're in for a nightmare of a storm today. But everyone has their own theory as to how much snow we're going to get. Some say 1 to 3 inches...Some say over a foot...Some say 18 to 24 inches. I've learned in my five years here in Milford that you can never trust a weatherman. Never. Allow me to explain:
Most of the meteorologists I watch are men. They stand in front of their green screens on my local news station warning us, the trusting folks of Milford and its surrounding areas, that "this one's gonna be a whopper," or "get ready for eight inches of snow to pound the area." And we prepare accordingly: We descend upon the Grand Union grocery store like locusts, scouring the shelves for gallons of water, crackers, milk, and hearty foods that will stick to our bones should the snow wipe out power and civilization. Citizens of Milford crouch in the aisles, eating the bread right through its plastic baggie, the manic look of fear in their eyes. Then they rush home, locking themselves up tight in their mountain homes, just waiting for the blizzard.
Then an inch of snow falls and the "blizzard" is over. And all that pillaging was for nothing.
Naturally, we blame the weather man. "I guess Meteorology is the only profession where you get paid to be wrong." "Can you believe that Joel Snedeker? He said we were going to get eight inches and we barely got a dusting."
But I think men like Joel have a pretty sneaky ploy going. I think they're trying to convince all of us ladies out there that what we think is one inch, really is eight inches.
Tricky. Very tricky.