With six weeks of rain, temperatures reminiscent of mid-October,
and school registration upon us, I am feeling hosed. In an era
touted as "Global Warming on a Stick," why the heck are we putting
sweatshirts on the kiddies in August? And if we do have to endure
this craptastic version of summer, why didn't anyone tell the
mosquitos? I probably have malaria by now with 450 bites, but my
skin is still winter-white. I'm pasty and translucent. You can see
all the way through to my spleen.
In an effort to alter the final weeks of summer vacation, I am
demanding some blazing hot days. I request that Tom Skilling offer
a forecast requiring us to go door-to-door checking on grandmas. I
am petitioning the powers that be to provide a real honest-to-God
conclusion to summer before all the fundraising packets and Market
Day order forms appear at my door.
I live for summer. As someone who hates the cold more than
serial killers, anchovies, and barking dogs combined, summer is
that one time of year I possess boundless energy, childlike
optimism, and a general love of all mankind.
The rest of the time? Not so much. I mean, I may offer you a
glass of water if you were dying of thirst or something, but that's
only if I don't have to go out into the cold to get it.
When my husband and I plan our retirement, Joe has all kinds of
stipulations and addendums. Restaurants, housing, and access to
culture play a significant role in his decision. Me? Pitch a tent
on a beach in Florida and I'd be happy. I could eat the sand.
I know there are plenty people out there who enjoy the changing
seasons, colorful foliage, and all those dreadful cold weather
sports, but I am simply not one of them.
Give me 90 degrees and blindingly sunny days, and I am capable
of conquering the world.
So come on, Mother Nature. I'm not sure if you were part of the
sequester sacrifices along with the Blue Angels and White House
tours, but I beg you. One week. Give me one solid week of
blistering, beach-worthy weather and I owe you big.
I'll even swear off all my aerosol hairspray forever and
Marianne is mother of three sons and the wife of a southside Irish fireman. She has learned that sometimes you're just too dumb to know what makes you happy. She blogs regularly at We Band of Mothers (webandofmothers.com) and curses with even greater frequency. Her material is written for the imperfect, the imprudent, and the impatient mothers who know that all this stuff is really very funny if you just give it a minute.
See more of Marianne's stories here.
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