The weatherman who cried wolf

We slept with flash lights by our beds last night. For the umpteenth time in a few weeks, there was a tornado warning for our area.

In our nearly 3 years in Illinois, we've yet to be hit by a tornado. (Wood? Wood? Where are you?) I don't know if it's because we live in a suburban area, sheer luck, or we just smell bad, but all these false alarms are creating a false sense of security.

Last night, as the Weather Channel beeped out hideous warnings and promises - "A dangerous storm with damaging winds will reach you in 10 minutes! Seek shelter! Put on some deodorant!" - Mr. Dub got out the flashlights and emergency backpacks, while I typed some emails.

Maybe I'm just mad. Coming from Arizona, where our big natural worry is drought, it's hard to live in a place where deadly tornadoes are commonplace. And now, apparently, we also have earthquakes to worry about. So I'm sorta ticked, and I think the tornadoes know it.

Anyhow, there was no tornado. There were no damaging winds. There was no soft-ball sized hail. There was an intense downpour ... and a lingering distrust in meteorology.

Do you trust your weatherman?

The audacity!

In a cruel twist of irony, Mrs. Dub discovered that her precious Miss Dub loved the snow.

Neil Diamond and babies? Intrigued? Go here to read my review about That Baby DVD.

Swan Song for Summer

Dear Summer,

I just wanted to say a formal farewell to you as you disappeared Tuesday night without even whispering, "Adieu." As someone who hates goodbyes, I understand your hasty departure, but after our intimate relationship this summer I really expected more - a final barbecue, a last swim, one more hot night looking at the stars. But instead I went to bed humid and woke up with a chill to realize that the leaves were already changing, the air was suddenly crisp and the world had been repainted in hues of autumn where vivid greens had just been.

Crying would seem natural but surprisingly I'm not sad. With the same anticipation that I brought out my sandals on the first bearably warm day in April I put on my ballet flats yesterday. I realized that I'm actually sick of skirts and shorts and longing to cover my finally tan legs in pants. I'm excited to replace my "melon" and "freesia" home fragrance oils with scents like "pumpkin nectarine" and "golden apple." I want to make soups not salads. And I almost want to decorate for fall, though I refuse to do anything Halloween-specific. I just hate the black-orange color combo. And while I'm happy to see purple and green have been added to the mix, I'd much prefer taupe and turquoise.

So I suppose it was time to say goodbye, Summer. I guess our love affair had begun to wane. Hot was no longer invigorating. Bright was no longer charming. Wet just started to feel clammy. Things got stale.

But that doesn't mean we're over. Shortly after Christmas, if not sooner, I'll be begging for you to come back. I'll wet my pillow with tears at night remembering all our good times from this year and years past. I'll dream of you. I'll wish for you. I'll change my tune.

You are my season, Summer. Never forget that. But I'm not ready to settle down. I need a little Fall and Spring in my life to keep things exciting, but I love you the most. Always have, always will.

Oh, and I hate Winter. Like, I give myself diarrhea thinking about how soon that pointless season will steal Fall away. Any chance you could tell him to back off? He's so pushy.

Until next year!
Mrs. Dub

Weather Report

We recently had a spree of nice days in Chicago. Sunny. Warm, but not too warm. Crisp. Calm.

And it made me realize just how much weather can affect your mood. Or maybe it’s just me and the other 35 million Americans who suffer from seasonal depression. (I’m totally self-diagnosed. I also remove my own stitches, but that’s another story.)

For me, perfect weather is San Diego weather: Sunny and 75 with a light breeze. Nighttime necessitates a cardigan year-round. Day time is flip-flops or flats weather. Boots are doable but optional. You can own a winter wardrobe, but you can also get by on a closet full of skirts.

I’m pretty sure San Diego is your dream weather, too, though I’ve heard rumors of people who like their weather colder. I, of course, have lumped such tales with those of Nessie and Sasquatch and will continue to do so until I hear a first-person narrative.

By the way, I happen to be in San Diego today, where the weather is perfect. And that makes me very, very happy.

Where are you today? Is there someplace you’d rather be?

And does it have anything to do with the weather?

Seasonal Oppresion

QUESTION:

If someone told you had to choose between the following or you'd get no dessert - and I know of no greater threat - what would you pick:


A very cold winter

or

A very hot summer?


Because I used to be all about the latter until I met HUMIDITY. And now I'm thinking winter is looking better every day. Then again, it's still a humid cold.

Stupid moisture!

Um, wow!

Holy crap!

Pardon my English, but that's all I can think to say after the Storm of the Century that hit Chicago yesterday.

The lightening was blinding, the thunder was deafening and the tornado sirens were frightening, but all I could think was, "It's a hurricane! Run for higher ground!" (Or is that for tsunamis? I'm always confused about my natural disasters.)

Mr. Dub had the pleasure of driving us home in middle of the downpour. Let's just say we won't be going to the car wash any time soon as the torrential rain cleaned our car like a dishwasher.

It was scary, it was amazing, it was annoying. Because while it was the worst storm in the history of history, it was about the 23rd storm this month ... and most of them like to hit around 3 a.m. with such force that sleeping is not an option. (Unless you're Miss Dub, thank goodness!)

I mean, Arizona Augusts are always stormy, but at least those clouds are kind enough to finish up before midnight.

Weather can be so rude.

Luckily we never lost power, weren't flooded, didn't get stranded and are, you know, alive. But the forecast calls for rain all day so any of that could change.

Guy!

What's the worst storm you've ever been in?


(This one ties with a huge microburst I saw in Hawaii as a kiddo. The Polynesian Cultural Center never saw it coming!)

The perfect storm

Miss Dub is weaning me.

Despite my intentions to nurse her until her first birthday, she is now using crying, head-shaking and biting to let me know that 9 months will have to do.

So it was with that fullness of … um … heart that I spent Monday night trying to sleep. Adding to my fitful sleep was the fact that I ran out of a certain medication on the same day and had to switch brands since the kind for nursing mothers was no longer adequate. Oh, and due to my procrastination, I had to take two pills in one day, which resulted in some serious nausea. Like, serious.

To deal with the weaning pain, I had placed some cold cabbage leaves over my … um … heart. The smell of cabbage, however, didn’t bode well with the nausea.

And then a storm of epic proportions hit our town around 3 a.m. It looked like a scene from a Neil Diamond concert with all the flashing lights.

I would like to take a moment to remind you that there are two types of people in this world: those who love Neil Diamond and those who don’t. I love him. Those who don’t are living empty lives.

The lightning was striking fast, furious and very close to our home. The thunder was shaking our house like an earthquake. The rain was bucketing down. I went into Miss Dub’s room and found her jumping up and down in her crib, pointing gleefully to the bright window. All three of us went into the other room and watched the storm behind closed blinds because it was too bright to open them.

About an hour later, the storm had quieted down. I sent Mr. Dub to bed. I sang a song to Miss Dub and gave her “softs” – our name for gentle touches. Then I headed to bed. But the smell of cabbage, the dizzying nausea and heaviness of my … um … heart prevented me from sleeping.

So I headed to the other room to consume massive amounts of Triscuits and attempt to calm my queasiness with various bodily contortions. Alas, it didn’t work. Soon morning came, the storm finally passed and Miss Dub woke for her morning glass of water.

Because she won’t drink formula.

She won’t drink whole milk.

She doesn’t really like juice.

She just wants water.

And my heart is really heavy because I don’t know what to do – is she OK at nine months to subsist on water and other dairy products like cheese and yogurt? Or does she need some form of milk?

Then again, my … um … heart is heavy for other reasons. And I’d really like to know how long this heaviness will last.

Although I will say the cabbage came in handy when making shrimp tacos last night.

I promise they were fresh leaves.

Strike!

I haven’t worn makeup for two days and the odds of me putting it on today are slim.

“Why?” you might ask. (Or you might not, but for the purpose of this blog let’s suppose you do.)

Because I’m on strike.

That’s right ladies and gentleman – an honest-to-goodness beauty dispute against the weather.

In case you’ve missed the news, we’re experiencing a bout of “extreme and dangerous cold” as the weathermen so aptly put it. In other words, it’s freaking cold outside.

It’s so cold that they’ve cancelled school.

It’s so cold that you will develop icicles in your nose as soon as you step outside.

It’s so cold that Miss Dub makes this gasping noise whenever we have to journey outdoors.

It’s so cold that people are dying.

I draw the line at the last one. I mean, c’mon weather. That’s criminal.

So Miss Dub and I are staying inside for the unforeseeable future, which totally bums me out because we can’t even open the blinds for fear of letting the cold in. So it’s a perpetual gloomy abyss inside our little apartment. It’s depressing. It’s boring. And it’s totally uncalled for.

So I’m not putting on makeup. I’m not doing my hair. I’m not getting dressed. I might not even shower because who the heck would even notice? Did I mention it’s too cold to go outside?

I may start to rot. I may start to lose muscle tone in my legs. I may forget what the sun looks like and be thrown into hysterics when I finally see it in 6-8 weeks.

But that’s the cost of a strike.

Sometimes you have to send a message to the weather. Even if it comes in the form of forsaken eyeliner.

Wish you were here?

Here's our 5-day forecast:

Somehow cold just doesn't seem like an adequate description.

And for the record, it's currently -22 degrees outside with the windchill. That means you can get frostbite if you are outside for only 30 minutes.

Anyone up for a visit?