One of the joys of living in the Washington D.C. metropolitan area is the charming sense of level-headedness we bring to the topic of inclement weather.
If two lobbyists stand at the corner of 15th and K and one whispers, in the quietest voice possible, the word snow, the effing city goes on panic alert.
The T.V. weathermen all start flailing their arms in a manner reminiscent of the robot on Lost in Space, shrieking "Danger, Will Robinson ... Danger, Will Robinson."
And the Fairfax County Public Schools announce they are starting two hours late. (I suppose I should be grateful they didn't cancel the school day altogether.)
So now it's ten minutes to four pm and I've still got more than half a day's work on my plate.
Not to mention, I'm now never going to convince Monkeyboy that there is no causal connection between wearing one's p.j.'s inside-out and getting a snow day or a snow-delayed school opening.
9-year-olds aren't big on the difference between coincidence and causality.
He's also heard, through the ever-reliable schoolyard grapevine, that flushing a tray of ice cubes down the toilet guarantees time off for overnight snow.
I put my foot down about that one. Inside-out p.j.s are harmless and look kinda cute. But don't mess with daddy's crapper.