Don’t let it snow

    I hate snow. I know, I know, every 10 inches of snow supposedly equals 1 inch of rain and we all need rain, but a blizzard seems to me to be an awfully inefficient and dangerous way to get your moisture.
    Such is my hatred for snow that I’d go so far as to say that I’m a chionophobiac. That means I live in fear of the white stuff. To me there is no such thing as “beautiful snow.” The holidays are the worst because at any minute I could walk into a store and the Muzak will be playing that irritating Christmas classic, “Let it snow, let it snow, let it snow.” It’s gotten to the point that I hate every month with an “R” in it, which means I don’t get any relief until May.
    I’ve got a lot of respect for those of you who live in northern climes where it snows, you with the icicles hanging from your nose hairs. I don’t know how you do it. Please understand, I’m a Southern California kid, born and bred, and the only time I saw snow as a child was when me and my buddies went to YMCA snow camp every winter. One year, three weeks before the camp I suffered a compound fracture of my leg playing an unsafe, unsupervised rugby-like game at the Y. The YMCA leaders were so grateful that my family didn’t sue them they insisted that I go to snow camp while on crutches, all expenses paid. The minute we got there, a blizzard set in for three days, and the Y leaders had to carry me out 12 miles on a toboggan. By the time we got to dry pavement, I’m sure they wished we’d just sued them for 10 million.

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