Stories of the Great White North

First, I laughed when I checked out The Weather Channel's local weather information for our area earlier today:

Current Golf Index? Yeah, I'd say it's lousy! I don't even golf, and I didn't need the Weather Channel to tell me this. But, barring any other outdoor activities which come up, I can at least find solace in the fact that Miami Beach's next tide is at 1:37pm. Of course, I'd have to fly hundreds of miles to enjoy said tide, but I'm sure one of the Weather Channel's annoying pop-up ads can fix me up with a great deal on airfare. Sheesh.

Chari's bemoaning the cold, too, down in Orlando. It's all relative. Temperatures in the forties sound lovely to me, but then again, I'm not used January high's falling in the seventies. But, hey, she can go see the next tide if she wants to.

Her blog entry reminded me of the time DH and I enjoyed the hottub at a favorite Bed and Breakfast* one cold February night. We were reluctant to get out of that wonderful, churning hot water because it was only in the teens. When we finally did get out, it was pretty late and we'd pretty much turned into prunes. Pasty white prunes. Howie stepped into his sandals and attempted to take a step. My poor, frozen chosen pretty much tottered there, a living parody of cartoon characters whose feet are glued to the floor.

I had no sandals, so I dashed for the door. As I ran, my feet alternately froze to the sidewalk and peeled free. It made a noise with each step, sort of like parting Velcro, but quieter. The door was locked, too. It seems the guests did not see us out there and locked the great room's door for the night. Fortunately, we were sharing a suite with friends, and the suite was right above the door. Some frantic cries of "Hey! Help! Open the door!" finally proved successful, and we creaked and crackled our iced-over bodies inside and up the stairs.

The next morning, I could feel every bump and fiber of the berber carpet with the soles of my feet. I'm surprised there wasn't a series of size 11 footprints marking the previous night's progress on the sidewalk, neatly imprinted with the skin cells I left behind in my haste.

Now THAT'S cold! Like I said, though, it's all relative. My friend from southern Louisiana asked me if dog poop freezes where we live. Heck YES, it freezes! Makes it easier to clean up later, too. ;)

*By the way, we're friends with the couple enjoying breakfast in the photo there. They live in our town and we go to the same church; I think they were there for their anniversary. Hi, guys!