We live in what's called the "temperate zone" because it sounds nicer than "fickle bitch zone."
After three snowstorms in a week, bringing about two feet of instant coverage, the temperature is supposed to rebound from its current low of 2 degrees to 38 on Christmas Eve, with yet another snowstorm turning mostly to rain. That means dashing through the slush with a roaring snow blower, hurling glop off the driveway before it can set up into horrible ridged concrete with the next temperature plunge.
On the ski trails, the seesaw temperatures will turn the surface from sticky to sloppy to raspy frosted glass and back to sticky. Some form of precipitation could fall on four of the next five days and five of the next six. Even days listing snow show highs above 32, for that hellish watery brew that turns into something different with each skier that passes over it.
Thanks, Father Christmas. What unspeakable act were you performing with Mother Nature to produce this offspring?
Don't tell me.
On the plus side, we have a deep base, unless the next page of the extended forecast shows a jump to the 60s and a deluge. That's happened before.
It's a long way to March.