An Old Man Complaining About The Weather

This was my backyard Saturday morning. Picturesque beagle/black lab mix aside (who may or may not be relieving his overnight pressures at the moment the picture was taken), the rest of it is an absolute outrage and a mammoth middle-finger to the face of all decent autumn-loving peoples. Snow should not be perceptibly falling in my part of North America on November 12th, and the fact that it ultimately accumulated nearly an inch (admittedly, only in the grass, the streets were always clear) before melting away again Sunday is chicanery of the highest order!

I had half a mind to contact my Congress-people about it, until I remembered that they’re about as effective at anything as a using a wet noodle for a bicycle chain.

It’s been downright cold since, and then today the real slushie hit the fan. I drove to work this morning barely stifling the white-hot rage I could feel in my earlobes and toenails — but not my frosty hands, mind you — while I cruised through an alarming concoction of very fine flurries, drizzle, and even some gods-forsaken freezing rain. Then later in the afternoon, I walked outside and found my car covered in a thin layer of wintry go f!*k yourself mix.

Again, I will take this opportunity to remind you, dear Reader, that this is November 16th. Winter is officially still five weeks away. And, no, I do not live in the northern United States. Also, did I mention that the snow from last Saturday did, in fact, set a record for the area?

It would be disingenuous to suggest that I’m not sure what is going on, exactly, in explaining the bullshit conditions around here reminiscent of being North of George R. R. Martin’s Wall these past few days. And, of course I realize there are plenty of exceedingly clever trolls out there just chomping at the bit to drop a sick burn in the comments about how I should be looking forward to all that “global warming them crybabies been whinin’ about all these years”.

Just… let me head all that off while I’m here. Let’s all keep in mind that weather is not climate.

Again, for the penny seats in the back, climate is not weather.

Rising changes in our little blue marble’s average temperature does not mean universally warmer weather. It means fundamental and potentially unpredictable changes in climate all over the place, which might, indeed make it 123 degrees in Arizona in September while I’m getting wintery f#$ckall mix in early November.

But I digress. My name isn’t Ken, I’m not a meteorologist, and this is isn’t supposed to be a lesson in global climate change. If it was, I’d have a nametag that reads, “Hi, I’m Ken” and a bunch of pictographs showing science stuff.

Nope, this post is just me, Pud’n, complaining about weather, because I didn’t use to mind being cold, but I’m, um, shuffling all too quickly into Advanced Middle Age, which means I get frigid now even when I’m just…

*checks notes*

sitting in my indoor office with a mostly working climate control system and a highly efficient space heater. Of course, as we all know, If there’s one thing that men of Advancing Middle Age enjoy doing, it’s complaining about the weather.

And yelling at kids to get off of my lawn.

At any rate, I think it might be time to go buy some old guy fleece vestware. They also tell me that shaking your fist at the sky is a good way to get the circulation flowing to heat up those extremities. Which is good, because I was planning to do that anyway.

Stay warm, kids. I’m going to try to do the same.

Oh, and stay off of my lawn, while you’re at it.

Pud’n