I typically don’t pay attention to weather forecasts. I have no idea what a falling or rising barometer means, and I completely zone out when the local weather bunny weathermanperson talks about high pressure or low pressure troughs “sweeping in” to create some kind of front, whatever the Christ a “front’ is. I do, however, tend to listen when the talk is either of hurricanes or snowstorms, both of which tend to visit their seasonal charms on this state.

Sometime last night, the weather folks began to talk of us “maybe” getting a weekend snowstorm. I only half-paid attention, because the forecast was laced with “weatherspeak” — high-pressure this and low pressure that.

However, when I stepped outside the house this morning, I thought, ”It feels like snow.”

Those of you who don your snuggies when the temperature dips below sixty degrees probably don’t understand what “It feels like snow” means, but those of you who live in the parts of the country where it snows regularly know exactly what I mean, even if it is difficult to explain.

I suppose “feeling like snow” is a constellation of our perceptions of the temperature, the color of the sky, and the amount of moisture in the air. Hell, maybe, in the course of a lifetime, we have unconsciously developed a sense of barometric pressure (without knowing diddelysquat about barometric pressure) that tells us when snow is on the way.

All I know is that all day it “felt like snow,” and that by the time I arrived home tonight, the weather folks ceased saying that it “might” snow and have begun saying, without equivocation, that we will be clobbered tomorrow with snow and blizzard-level winds.

I could have told them that this morning.

P.S. I hope that tomorrow it doesn’t snow and that you will have the satisfaction of telling me that I am full of caca, but I doubt you’ll get the chance. Hell, it even smells like snow.