Not Even a Trace

I've been out of the loop for the past few days as my thirst for adventure and different weather took me to central Illinois, somewhere along the mighty Illinois River. It was there that I attempted to age 3 years in 48 hours by abusing fried foods, alcohol and tobacco. A little duck hunting was also in order and I am proud to say that it was a success . . . and that frying duck breast in bacon grease before consuming it is incredibly wise and highly rewarding.

Coniglio announced last night that Nov. 21 is the latest Denver has ever gone without receiving measurable snowfall and that if we did not get it tonight (Monday, Nov. 10), we would break that record because there is no snow forecast for the rest of the week. Make of that what you will.

All of the afternoon forecasters (at the four major stations) are keeping expectations down, which I applaud. Lisa Hidalgo over at 7News says we might get a trace of snow and is joined in that assessment by the rest of them. By the way, is she pregnant? How come they (meteorologists) never announce whether or not they're pregnant on the air? They should warn you, Joe the Viewer, that there are going to be some natural changes happening over the coming months. It's not fair to make us guess. You'd think they'd want us to know. I'd be dropping hints left and right during that grey period (first trimester, early second trimester) where you can't quite tell that a woman is pregnant yet know that they are getting bigger but are terrified to say anything. One of the cruelest life lessons any man or woman can learn is throwing out a "congratulations" to someone who looks pregnant but is not. The hurt in that woman's eyes when she replies "congratulations on what?" while quickly realizing what you are inferring is something you can never unsee. It happened to me once and it will never happen again. Well, I guess it will never happen again in person. Online it might because I just made the assumption about Ms. Hidalgo here and, who knows, maybe she does not have a bun in the oven. But she'll never read this. Even if she does, I won't have to see her face. Unless she sends me an angry picture . . . which would be pretty awesome of her.

UPDATE - As of 12:28AM, nary a trace of snow has fallen. Coniglio is surely distraught and drinking heavily. Bourbon probably.