“Milwaukee. It’ll be nice. Yeah, it snows a lot and it’s super duper ridiculously cold in the wintertime, and well, we’ll have to teach you how to scrape your car. But it’s great there. They have lots of beer. And cheese,” said Russ
“Beer and cheese? I’m in! … wait, just how cold are we talking?”
That’s kinda how the conversation went down last fall, as Russ began investigating job prospects to fill the void sure to be left in his life once he completed all his experiments on 700-pound, cholesterol-ridden pigs and obtained his shiny new Ph.D.
I’m honestly not sure how he convinced me that it was a good idea to pack up our worldly possessions (They’re not many, who am I kidding? They basically consist of a Barbie Doll-sized kitchen table, his collection of sci-fi books and my yard-sale-purchased game of Scrabble) and move from the beautiful, warm, sunny, friendly state of North Carolina to what I envision to be the frigid cold, distinctly unfriendly tundra of Wisconsin. I’m pretty sure he’s a conversational wizard. Or I was good and drunk. Either is a distinct possibility.
Whatever the case may be, moving we are. And despite my fear that I’m gong to turn into a popsicle the minute I set foot on Wisconsin soil, I’m actually pretty excited about the whole thing. I mean, when else am I going to get to wear the warm and toasty hat/scarf/gloves combo I crocheted myself in a caffeine-fueled frenzy last fall?
It’s going to be an adjustment for this gal, who’s pretty much only lived below the Mason Dixon Line. I’m accustomed to winters lasting, oh, about four months, and scraping the occasional millimeter-thick frost with a credit card.
You’re telling me I’m going to need a legitimate ice scraper doohickey? But won’t my hands get cold?
The Frozen Southerner 