The first day of my childless vacation has children in it, because at the writing of this post, it’s negative 14°F outside and the school decided that since the students have to walk between buildings and most of the kids place fashion over frostbite, it was safer to let them stay at home one more day. So I didn’t have to get up early to drive the kids to school—a double blessing, since my husband’s car wouldn’t start and he had to borrow mine.
Once the kids got up and got fed and sufficiently televisioned—by our lights, not theirs—Jane read one of her books and Sunny and I created our own little ponies over at HubWorld.
Hers are veritable fashionplates, with names like Moonshine Velvet and Shimmersong Bling.
Mine are a tad more autobiographical.
This is Frostbite Shiver. Note the expression. And the cutie mark.
My dad would say it’s colder than a brass toilet seat out there, and last week, I heard library patrons compare the wind chill to specific parts of a brass monkey’s anatomy. Or a witch’s. Or, in one case, a brass witch’s.
Is brass really colder than any other metal? Is metal even required at these—and I use the term loosely—“temperatures”? ‘Cause after going out for the thirty seconds it took to get the paper this morning, colder than frozen snot is remarkably apt, believe me.
Or colder than my husband’s engine block, which is not a euphemism, thank you very much.
I’ve heard colder than Khan’s revenge, because I hang out with the kind of people who would get the joke, and one of that crowd also tried colder than Lord Kelvin’s sex life, which doesn’t seem a fair thing to say about a sociable and not unattractive Irishman who published On the uniform motion of heat in homogeneous solid bodies.
I usually say, colder than a polar bear’s nose, at least when my children are around. Or colder than Sunny’s feet, which is a unit of measurement that would have boggled Lord Kelvin.
Regardless, I’m staying inside today, where it’s warmer than out there.
And you can quote me.
What do you say?