Baby, It’s Cold Outside, Even for the Bronx
Shaindle’s Shpiel

Baby, It’s Cold Outside, Even for the Bronx

If you are reading this and happen to be a weather forecaster, please do not take offense or, worse yet, bring those degrees down even further.

First of all, I don’t really believe there is such a thing as 14 degrees, and certainly not minus-14 degrees.

What kind of a number is minus-14 degrees or minus-10 degrees or minus any degrees? Cold by any other name is still cold.

It’s a plot to unnerve us, to lull us into thinking we know nothing, to accept that it’s the weather forecasters who are the smart ones and that our daily lives hinge on the relationship they have with Mother Nature.

Did any of them go to the Bronx High School of Science?

Well, neither did I. However, I know someone who did, my very own sister, so by one degree of separation, I am smarter than those farkakteh (silly) forecasters.

If you are reading this and happen to be a weather forecaster, please do not take offense or, worse yet, bring those degrees down even further.

This is just a Shaindle’s Shpiel, after all, and truth to power — how we go about our daily lives does depend upon you.

Our driveway was totally black ice the other morning. My brave husband fell taking the trash cans out on his way to picking up the newspapers.

I happened to be looking out our front door when he fell, so I screamed: “Are you OK?”

I was relieved he said he was OK because running (sliding) down to help was unthinkable, given that it was freezing outside.

So instead I made an offer: Wait until I leave for work. I will drive down, pick up the papers and drive back up to give them to you.

Clever, right? Hmm, not so much.

Slowly backing out of the garage, the car spun — just a little, just enough to scare the bejesus out of me.

Most folks do back out of their garages slowly, this is true. However, the real and true reason I must back out slowly is because my Honda Pilot (which I love) leaves a little less than 6 inches for maneuvering. Weight Watchers can’t help my car lose inches.

When my house was built, cars were much smaller. Actually, I think we were too. Our dinner plates were smaller as well. Ah, but I digress.

At what would be considered a snail’s pace, I drove down the driveway, skidding just a wee bit on the ice.

At the bottom of the drive, I put the car in park, exited the car, picked up the papers and attempted to drive back up.

Nope, no way, not gonna happen, not in this lifetime.

My car skidded, and I could not get up the drive.

So, once again I put the car in park, exited and slowly crept up the driveway with the newspapers in hand.

I tossed them with all my might to my hubby and slid back to my car, where the door was open and ready for me to climb back in.

I attempted to climb back into the driver’s seat, and the darned car started sliding down the lower end of the driveway, with me holding the steering wheel while my legs imitated a scissor.

I thought I was surely a goner. I just knew my Pilot would wind up flipping me under and drive over me.

After about 5 feet of downward sliding, the car came to a stop, as did my heart and my breathing.

As I climbed into my car, the frozen blood in my veins started defrosting and flowing to my heart, which, thank goodness, started beating again.

Whew, that was a close one.

Baby, it’s cold outside, even for this Bronx girl. Just sayin’!

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