Category Archives: Mother Nature

Tweet. Tweet. ….One Two….Got You!

We have three children.

Furry.  Four legged.  (Note: we also have 2 lizards….which makes is five chidren.)

Image 3  Liggy, the eldest at 16 years, could give a rat’s ass about anything but her dinners

Image 6  Monkey, the middle child, quickly approaching 2 years on Halloween, is the typical scaredy cat.

Image 5  Taku, the youngest at 1.5 years old, is the pisser and will kick your ass.

It’s important to note, the only one with a UFC fight name is, “LIGGGGGYYYY the KIBBBLE SNATCHER.”

Seriously.

The other two, haven’t earned their names yet.

Until today.

REWIND:  For some history.

About a month ago, I bought a brick of bird food and put it into a feeder on our third floor balcony.  Occasionally a bird came and snacked.  A little nibble.  After 30 days, 3/4 of this brick is still there.  Obviously, we are not a birding hot spot.

Last week I was looking out at the balcony.  Surveying our domain, what little we have in our rental …. Pondering the world.

WHEN.  A tiny little hummingbird came up and was trying to get sugar water from our sea glass globe lights.

!!!!!!!!

For those of you who know me, I have a history with hummingbirds.  It’s a running awkward moment.  But hysterical for a later date.

Of course, hummingbirds….need to buy a feeder.  Small birds.  Small feeder.

Consider it done.  This weekend, I roll up to my local Lowe’s and buy a hummingbird feeder.

And why not….let’s get one of these huge tube bird feeders with 6 channels on it.

Yep.

Came home, filled them and hung them up on the balcony.

The next day…within 30 minutes of watching the feeders, I had 3 hummingbirds,  4 finches and a woodpecker come to visit the feeding stations.

A

WOODPECKER!

Seriously.

Love my little feeders.

Next morning, I get up.  There are hummingbirds at the feeder.  LOVE.

I go outside and sit in the chair.  The kids (cats) join me.

Liggy, the eldest, as usual, could care less.  Just let me sleep in my box.

Taku, is sitting next to me on the chair and when a bird approaches, she tries to hide behind me.

Seriously, Taku?  You’re the ass kicker in the family.

Monkey, the “Don’t look at me, I’m afraid of EVERYTHING” cat….watches the birds and chatters at them.  And chatters.  Chatters.  And chatters.

She wiggles her butt and thinks about leaping at them, until I give her the TSK TSK comment.  To which she immediately thinks, “Shit.  You are SUCH a party pooper.”

Throughout the morning I watch and our little feeders are turning into the aviary version of a 7-Eleven.  One bird, two bird, one bird, one bird, a fly by, two bird, a fly by, hummingbirds….I am delighted.

———————————-

Monday morning rolls around and the Monkey is anxious, as usual, to go out on the deck.  She has been like this since we rescued her.  She was a beach kitten.  Water is her thing.  Find something she likes?  Here, let me put it in the water bowl.  Paper, rubber bands, twist ties, little jewelry bags, toys, treats…into the water they go.

Monkey and Taku like to go out and sun themselves.  Liggy, only if it’s convenient and her box is set up.

I don’t open the door until I’m out of the shower and running back and forth around the apartment.  At least I can keep a 50% eye on everyone.   Checking in on Monkey’s position, Liggy’s sleeping pattern and Taku’s give a shit attitude.  50% is more than enough.   They are fine.

Until today.   (CUE:  The Jaws theme music. )

Mondays suck by nature.  Nobody wants to go back to work.  You’re dragging your ass trying to get out the door.  Only half the coffee cup has been inhaled.  Your hair isn’t done right.  The outfit you have on…well, meh….at least your shoes will be comfortable.  Seriously, why can’t we do 4 day work weeks?  I’d work 10 hours to get an extra one off.  Seriously.

I get dressed into my work clothes and race across the hallway to go back into the master bath and start my hair.

STOP.

HALT.

SKIDDING SIDEWAYS!

WHAT THE FUCK?!

no.  sorry.  i’m not seeing this.  that’s not what i think.  no. no. no.no.no.nonononononononoNONO

M O N K E Y!

And there sits Monkey (the scaredy cat) in our bedroom….outside the master bathroom.  With a bird at her feet.  I swear it looks like it is 6 inches long….tip to tail.

Little Monkey is so proud of her accomplishment.  LOOK MOMMA!  FOR YOU!  Isn’t is wonderful? It’s soft and warm.  It makes noise and guess what?!  I caught it just for you!

I manage to get my tongue back out of the back of my throat and say::::: “MONKEY!” I’m too stunned to throw either my bathrobe or t-shirt over the stunned bird.  Her response?  

Grab the bird and head under our king size bed.

My response? Turn around.  March calmly out of the bedroom.  Walk into the living room.  Put my head between my knees.

Are you fucking kidding me?

REWIND:   There was a moment.  Briefest moment.  Like what happens right before you slam your fingers in a door.  You know this is going to be a bad move.  Yeah, well…..I thought “I really shouldn’t open the door to the balcony….I won’t be sitting there to watch Monkey….and she might catch a bird.  But you know what?  It’ll be fine.  I mean really, it’s M O N K E Y.  Like she’s going to catch a bird.  She’s afraid of everything!”

Yep.  Truth.

So I stood out in the hallway and pondered what to do next.

All I remembered was being a small child and we had a Robin that got into the house.  The pandemonium I created…..as a small person…..flapping my arms and screaming about the bird being loose in the house….leaping off of furniture.  (I was the one leaping off the furniture.) Terrible.  THIS is what I remembered at 7:50AM….I do not have a good rescue relationship with birds.

At least I didn’t run around in circles this morning.  Although it did cross my mind about 4 times.  Swiftly followed by a thought of, “YOU are the adult here!”  WHEN did I become an adult? Shit.  This is my issue now.  Shit.  Shit.  Shit.

I go back into the bedroom.  There is a feather on the floor.  I pick it up and put it into the bath trash can.  There’s no sound or movement.  Gulp.

I carefully kneel down on the floor and pick up the bed skirt.  God help me if anything come rushing at me….is what I’m thinking.

There’s Monkey…..her eyes glowing in the dark.  Blink. Blink. Blink. Blink.

There’s the bird in front of her.  On it’s side.  Obviously, not blinking.

I go back to the living room and grab a Priority Mail box the girls used to sit in.  I put a few paper towels in the bottom.  I will put the bird in this and take it outside.  I grab the broom.

Ok.

Well fuck.  Now what?  It’s a king size bed. I grab the end and P U L L — nothing.  Except there was a pop in my lower back to which I thought, “nice crack!  Who needs a chiropractor when you have birds under your bed!”

I grab the side and P U L L – nothing.

F U C K.

I text a friend, “Monkey caught a bird and is under the bed with it.”  Hey.  At 7:55 in the morning, you need to be in hysterics with someone with a bird under the bed!

In the meanwhile, I text my boss advising I’ll be late, due to cat catching a bird.  Now there is a late excuse if I’ve ever heard one!  He is going to think I’m nuts!  Please, feel free to use it….seriously!

Although for a fleeting moment, I did ponder just leaving and going to work.  Seriously.  Also pondered having to take an injured FINCH to the vet.  So go figure….which extreme do you prefer?

My friend responds back five minutes later, “How did Monkey catch a bird?”

“On the balcony.”  Blink. Blink.

Let’s all take a deep, deep knee bend everyone….cause….here…..we….go!

I go change into crap clothes, as I can see this is going to be a process.  I’m already sweating in the nether regions.   I grab the broom and head back into the bedroom.  All the while, Taku kitty, is following me as my back up.

Thank You, Taku.  The Bad Ass….but with a humane heart apparently.

I shake the broom under the bed.

Nothing.

I ponder getting the vacuum out….scares all the cats.  But then decide to shake the broom from another angle….this isn’t like sucking up yellow jackets or wasps…..which I did this weekend.  I have even sucked up roaches and the dreaded Floridian Palmeto Bug with this vacuum.  I can’t use it on a little bird.

.

.

.

.

Taku then goes under the bed.  OH HELL NO!  We will NOT be having two cats and one bird under the bed!   Not on this episode of, “Who Needs Coffee on Mondays!”  I slam the broom back under the bed and wave it frantically, top to bottom trying to make as much racket as I can.

All the while thinking…. God help me if that bird comes to life and flies out at me…..

Monkey takes off like a shot out the bedroom door.  I chase after her.  All the other rooms were closed off so the only place she had was the living room.

I don’t see her anywhere and so I lay down on the floor.  Sure enough, she’s under the couch.

I move the coffee table.

I move the end table.

I move the couch away from the wall.  She moves with the couch.

Of course, typical Monk.

I move the couch literally into the middle of the room….and the Monkey takes off under the dining room table.  She doesn’t have the bird.

????

I lay down on the floor.  No bird under the couch.

????

I go back into the bedroom and shut the door.

Taku is still hiding between boxes under the bed.  Her eyes are are big as Silver Dollars.  Poor thing.  She’s terrified and doesn’t know what to do.  I start pulling the 4 boxes, which are at the foot of the bed….they’re not very big,  out from under the bed.  Taku remains firmly planted in the middle.

Sigh.

Guess what?  No bird.

Where the hell is the damn bird?

I go out of the bedroom.  Shut the door…..leaving Taku to deal with the bird if it’s in there.  She’s the bad ass cat in this family….step up.  You’ll be fine.

I text my friend, who by this time, we’ve also had a quick conversation about the situation.  I tell her…Monkey is out of the bedroom, I can’t find the bird and Taku is under the bed.

Her response.  “Damn.  Double Damn.  Could the bird be under a blanket and Monkey is saving it for later?”

Seriously.  M O N K E Y!

Taking all 8 pillows off.  One.  At.  A.  Time.

I search the couch.  Heaven help me, I think….as sweat forms on my eyebrows and upper lip.

No bird.

It has to be in the bedroom.  By this time, I’m sweating so much I swear there are marks on my pants and in my pits.  Did I brush my teeth yet?  I feel like I’ve taken a chunk of Sasquatch fur and rubbed it all over my teeth.  Mahwahaherroooarwaaaahh….is how I feel.

What the hell am I going to do?  It’s 8:35AM and I call the complex’s maintenance line.  No answer.

Now, armed with a bath towel….correction….not just any bath towel….this is a Costco bath SHEET…..made for giants.  It’s so enormous, cause I thought I had a Pterodactyl trapped!

….I go back into the bedroom.

Taku has burrowed herself under the covers.  Only done when she is cold in the winter or scared.  I lift up the comforter and she looks at me like I’m an alien.  All the while backing away from me.  I snatch her up by the scruff on her neck and she look slightly relieved.  Out the bedroom door she goes.

I turn to face the room.

St. Francis of Assisi, patron saint of animals, please help me.

Nothing.

????

I little voice then says to me, “look by the night stand.”

Before I even move the table cover, I see something out of the ordinary.   Only like a 1/4 inch out of the ordinary.  I start to lift the cover.  All the while thinking, “so help me, if something flies up at me….I will run away like a screaming 4 year old.”

I pull up all the table cover.

Hold my breath.

Shit.

There’s the little bird.  It looks like it’s right wing is broken….as it tries to take off to the side.  Image 2

Well, how did you get over here?  Did Monkey hide you here?  I put the table cover back down.  Because, honestly, that was enough discovery for the moment.

I went back out of the bedroom.

Closed the door.

Sat down on the stairs.

Ok.  Thank goodness it isn’t a woodpecker.  It’s just a little finch.

The bird was stuck between our king size bed and night table.  Oh wait.  It’s not any kind of night table.  It’s a floor safe.  HA. Ha. ha..– not funny.  There’s a few inches between them, but not enough for the scoop into the box rescue.  I can’t move the bed stand.

I text my friend that I found the bird.  She asked if it was alive, if all the cats are out of the room and the ceiling fan turned off.

Yes.  Yes.  Yes.

JUST LIKE Harrison Ford in the Indiana Jones movies….there is always Plan B!  I grab a clean dish towel.  Put on a leather driving glove, in case the bird bites me.  ????  The beauty of it was I only could find the right glove so I was having a very Michael Jackson moment at 8:50AM.

“‘Cause this is thriller, thriller night
And no one’s gonna save you from the beast about to
Strike
You know it’s thriller, thriller night
You’re fighting for your life inside a killer
Thriller tonight!”

I summon up my inner St. Francis again and here we go to rescue the bird!

I pull back the table cloth and the little bird is right where I left him.  I lower the dish towel and try to close my hand around him.  He’s so tiny.  I can’t tell if I have him or not.  I am not suited to this type of work.  The little bird is not happy either…. and he starts to chirp and flutter to the sides……

SHIT.

Okay…..I put the table cloth back down.  March out of the room

Houston we need a moment.

At this point in the program, I’m so upset that my bowels are too.  THIS is why we always have two bathrooms.  In case the first one becomes unusable for some reason.

CUE the elevator music….thank you.

——–> 15 minute intermission <————-

Stomach still in an uproar, but we have to solve this problem.

I march out of my apartment, down the hall and look out the driveway to see if I see any maintenance people around.

Nobody except some construction workers doing cabinet work on the first floor —- SHIT.

In my bare feet….I march back up into the apartment.  ( I don’t care if I get foot fungus at this point, thank you…..cause I’m going to have to take a shower after this ordeal anyway!)

Deep breaths.

I summon up my St. Francis…..again…..come on buddy…..need you now!

Put my glove on.  (Because I’m bad…you know it!    Thank you  M.J.)  Image 1

Grab my box and dish towel.

Head back into the bedroom.

Little bird is right where I left him.

I lower the cloth.  He pitches a fit when I try to pick him up.

He scurries to the left and starts coming at me from under the dish towel.  I think, “PERFECT!  Two hand gathering technique!”  He is between the table cloth, box flap and the dish towel is overhead.

FOUL!

Bird.

In.

Flight!

IN FLIGHT!

FLYING!

AROUND THE ROOM!

(note:  at this point I had an out of body experience, where I said, SELF: THIS COULD BE A PROBLEM.)

Yep.  Little finch figured out how to maneuver and get around me.  Fly around the room and head towards the closed door.

He lands, cause he can’t get out.

His little head is tucked in between the baseboard and door frame.

Little bird.  Little bird.  Please.  Let me help you.  I am here to help you.

This is all I can think to say out loud.

I can’t whistle, so this is as good as it gets.  Come on St. Francis, help me out here.

First try.

He digs in further to the corner.  Head burrowed.  So scared.

Buddy, I’m scared too.  It’s going to be okay.  Trust me.  I know I’m an alien, but I’m a good alien.  Not like that damn Monkey alien.

With my leather hand and dish towel, I can hardly feel him.

On my second attempt, I scoop from the bottom.  I think I have something.

SHIT! SHIT! SHIT! SHIT! SHIT!    I HAVE THE BIRD!  I HAVE THE BIRD!

I drop the dish towel into the box, fold the flaps down and I’m running to the front door of the apartment.

He was so small.  So light.  Of course, I didn’t expect him to weigh in like a remote control but still….so nothing!  I only knew I had him cause I could feel his little feet.

I race down three flights of stairs and towards the woods.

I put the box down and lift the flaps.  Little bird, was stunned again for the second time in less than 90 minutes…poor thing.   I drop some bird food into the grass around him.  Open the dish towel and wait.  He opens his eyes and POOF…..one, two, three……I’m outta here!

Little bird flies away into the woods.

Thank.  You. Sweet. Jesus.

I walk up the three flights of stairs to our apartment and realize.  I’m shaking.

The adrenaline of rescuing a wild animal, scary.

The worry of a maimed or injured animal, scary.

The disbelief of the Monkey catching an animal, stunning.

The fret of catching a scared animal, stunning.

The realization, I did it, by myself, without any harm —————————  shocking.

It was a tiny bird.  Who thought it was dead by a predator, to be scared into corners by scared human, to be rescued by scared human…..aka……an alien…….to awaken in the woods……and fly away……priceless.

Yeah tiny bird!

And I stood in the dining room and looked at my shelf with the ceramic finch with a blue berry in it’s beak. I thought, little bird……I was able to save you today.  Bless.  I hope you have a happy life.   I’m sorry, I didn’t watch the Monkey closer.   We all learned a lot today.  And I saved a little bird.

Although, it nearly made me poop my pants and I had to take another shower…….. I saved a little bird.

Little bird and I both had a tough morning.  I thought a lot about that little bird.  I was the big scary alien trying to help, why was I scared of a little tiny bird?  It was the unexpected reaction.  Who knows what will happen…..even if one is trying to help.

St. Francis, thank you and bless that little creature.

Heaven help me when I run into something bigger than that needs saving from MONKEY, the BIRD SNATCHER!
Of course, when I came home this evening.  Monkey was ready to go back outside.  Sorry Monk. I have your number…..that’s not happening without my supervision. Nice try though….so practice your patience my little feline!

Then I saw the grey shape on the rug, which stopped my heart.

It was a stuffed mouse toy.

Damn cat toys.

Image

I need a drink.

There’s a What in My Belly Button?

I wouldn’t say I am a giant germophobe.

I go to the movie theater without concern.  I drink out of restaurant glassware, although I will admit I am about two steps away from bringing my own silverware.  Thank God payphones are going away, I couldn’t use those anymore.  You know, close talkers and all.  WAH!  And I certainly won’t use a public water fountain or get into a public hot tub or pool.  (Don’t even get me started on those.)

However my biggest weakness is the 3 x 3 space called airplane seats.  Before storing my bag under the seat I break out my alcohol wipes.

I wipe down the seat belt clasp, both arm rests,  the incher recliner button, head rest, all of the tray table, the clip that holds the tray in place and the lip of the seat pocket. This is true, even when in first class.  I don’t discriminate against the germs.

Technically, whatever you do, you shouldn’t even use that pocket in the first place.

Ignore it.

Resist all temptation to put anything in there!

Do you know what’s been in there? Used vomit bags, used tissues, dirty napkins, napkins with spit, used cups, gum, candy wrappers that have been chewed on, diapers, used diapers, water bottles that are probably covered in germs, ear wax from headphones, lice from hats, half eaten items of questionable origins, finger nail clippings….not to mention toe jam from the people in flip flops that use the seat as a foot rest and finally boogers too boot!

There’s a plethora of bacteria growing on that material!  I didn’t even have to mention unwashed hands touching the magazines or flight safety card.   When was the last time any of this was actually disinfected?

Remember how there was always a mad dash to get the pillows and blankets on the plane?  Thank goodness they’ve gone the way of the 8-track tape….they were oceans of germs!

It makes me a little woozy just thinking about it.  So is there any wonder I disinfect like a crazy person when I get on?  Next time you have to fly, I bet you think twice about what you’re touching.

Betcha.

The other day, I was at the gym and came out of the toilet, washed my hands and noticed the woman in the stall next to me didn’t bother to even approach the sink when she came out of the stall.  She immediately went right out of the locker room.

If I could come up with a tactful way of saying, “OMG!  You didn’t wash your hands!  That’s so disgusting.” I would say it.  Unfortunately, I know myself well enough that it wouldn’t come out anything close to something Miss Manners would approve of in society.  It would be more like a rant from Ozzy Osbourne, or having just watched The Dictator, it would come out more like, “What The Fuck!”  See, that’s not so Emily Post either.

Now every time I see this lady I know she’s not a washer.  If I was ever introduced to her I’d end up declining the hand shake.  “I’m sorry.  Normally, I’d shake your hand but I know you don’t wash after peeing.”  That would be the end of the friendship.  Which would be a blessing.

We’ve all heard the stories about hotel rooms.  Put the remote in a baggie, it’s covered in germs from every orifice of the human body.  Immediately remove the bed spread.  They’re covered in dried puddles of once oozy fluid – we’ve seen that proven time and time again on investigative reporting shows.

The cleanest thing in a hotel room is probably you!

Of course, I am a firm believer, without a little dirt in your life, you’d be sick quite often.  You need to build up your immunity to the tiniest wonders of the living world.  Dirt is good.  There are things I don’t need to know and I’m okay knowing that over time, yes, I have probably eaten a bug or three.  It’s highly likely I have accidentally eaten hair – not of my own.  Random flecks of whatever have made their way into my body and the hearty little army of germ fighters have kept the battle strong and keep fighting the good fight.  Thank you.

However, the other day, I had a “like” on my blog,”Best Night’s Sleep in Ages” from Twinkling Pebbles and decided to check out her blog.  She had written about an article that was recently published online via National Geographic about what scientists are researching regarding…yes, that’s correct…our belly buttons.

They have described it as being similar to a rainforest……full of bacteria!  Seriously, how many of us have actually thought about scrubbing out that little innie or outie?  Well, now you should or sign up for the research.  According to the NatGeo article, “From 60 belly buttons, the team found 2,368 bacterial species, 1,458 of which may be new to science.”

That’s it, I now have a child’s toothbrush in the shower, to clean out my belly button rain forest!  Now of course I’m curious, is it easier to clean an innie or an outie?  I don’t know.  This could be worse than toe jam on your tray table!

Time to invent some alcohol q-tips swabs….

I’d Rather Not.

A few weeks ago, my better half injured his back moving lumber around in the garage.  Heaving and throwing pieces too big to even fit into our garage in one whole piece.  Cue the chiropractor and professional massage appointments.

What?

Yes.  Of course I could have gone out to help him.  However, I was busy.

Too busy trying to throw up my small intestine for the twentieth time in 48 hours.  Thank you Norwalk Virus.  Down 6 pounds in two days.  Never before had I experienced so many dreams about lots of water and having my nipples pierced.

I was a little disappointed when I came out of my deliria only to realize I didn’t already have my nipples pierced.

Anyhow.  The man throws his back out and upon my recovery asks if I would rub some pain reliever into his back before bed.  The first two nights I was the Florence Nightingale of back pain relief.  I used my elbows, forearms, finger tips and heels of my hands….they were good massages.

Evidenced, obviously, by his squeals of pain and sighs of relief when I finished.

The third night, I finally broke down and said – out loud :

“I don’t know how people do this for a living.  It would drive me insane.”

The fourth night, I broke down and said, – out loud:

“Doing this every day would make my mind go numb.”

The fifth night came and being nearly out of my gourd, all I could say was “does this hurt?” as I poked around his back with my finger.  I was trying to find the sore spot.  This wasn’t going to be a ten minute rub down, these fingers were going to be on and off the knot like a sugar fiend licking down a carton of cake icing.   Fifteen seconds and counting.

If this was to continue, I was contemplating getting the animals involved….walk here.  Step over there.  Or I was going to have to pull “a Ross” from the show Friends and get out my toy trucks and salad spoons to do the massage work.

Which leads me to ponder other jobs in the world I simply couldn’t do. I would rather pick up elephant poop with my bare hands than perform any of the duties below.

Let’s ponder the other jobs in a spa or beauty salon.  One word….

Waxing.

I’ve been waxed.  Legalized S & M practice is more like it.

I couldn’t wax anyone.  You want to wax your what?  I don’t even think there’s hair there.   I don’t even know where that part is located.  Talk about having a private practice.  Some body part requests would simply cause me to faint.

I tighten up my black leather, knee high boots and straddle myself over the chair…..likely having to use some body weight to get the successful wax.

Oh, yeah, let me go ahead and get that nappy spot of hair off that __________!

>>>RIP IT OFF<<<<

Now, you’ll excuse me while I throw up and get a cold compress for the back of my neck.

Another job?  Pedicurist.

Nope. Not going to happen.

Thick, yellow, scaly toenails.  Not to mention possible fungus issues. Having to cut those things?  I know you’re tearing up the carpet at home, scraping the wood flooring – but damn.  Your dog called and wants his nail clippers back.  Shit, I don’t even think a hack saw and grinder is going to work on those things.

Not to mention the unidentifiable stuff that has been stored up under there for weeks, months, years…..which is going to come flying out and hit me in the eye.  I’ll end up loosing my eyesight from a serious pink eye infection due to your toe jam surprise.

Could you please pass the fully contained HAZMAT gear with facial guard?

Feet….with the tough heels, hard corns, stinking bunions and flaking skin.  It’s not right.  Seriously,  I think it’s nature’s way of trying to reverse evolution and get us to return to the ocean as fish.  I swear that woman had half a fin on the side of her foot.

Lastly, quite a few spas offer showers.   All I have to say is : drain hair.

Not doing it.

I just threw up a little.

 

 

 

 

How’s Your Weather?

Weather.

It’s a conversation starter.

It’s a conversation stopper.

It’s one of the top three easy, no brainer, small talk topics:

1.  Do you have any kids?

2.  What do you do for work?

3.  How’s your weather?

Wow.  Really?  Stand back – those are some heavy topics.

What is it with weather questions? Why do you care?  Are you comparing it to your current weather situation?  Whose is better?  Are you jealous or relieved?

Take Florida for example.  A good friend of mine tells me about her weather on occasion.  In case you didn’t know already, warning, spoiler alert: it’s not all beautiful blue skies and balmy breezes.  Florida is actually the entrance to Hell’s Kitchen!

Luckily no secret password, knock or handshake required.  No discrimination here!

Florida, like much of the east coast in the summer time, is sweltering hot to the point of becoming one with your clothing.  Melting into your skin like cotton candy on your hands at the carnival.   No, I didn’t mean for my butt to eat my shorts and underwear but my clothing is melting into my skin and apparently there’s nowhere else to go but up.

Thank you but no, I am not sporting the latest fashion craze as seen in Nordstrom’s recent Look Book collection –  thanks for insisting it could be – if the Look Book designer was living in a cave and only eating bad mushrooms, maybe it could be.  But it’s not.

Oddly enough,  every day people all across the state of Florida become one step closer to shaving their heads.  Why?  What else would you do with a head crowned with a spiky Brillo pad?  Thank you humidity.

At the opposite end of the country is Alaska.  I live in Juneau, Alaska.  One of two things occur when people think of Alaska.

1.  It’s a tropical climate because it’s located off the coast of California.

2. Obviously, it must be cold and snowing all the time because DUH – it’s Alaska!

Winters in Juneau must be equivalent to living in Antarctica.  Wrong.  We’re actually very similar to Seattle, the only difference is we know how to drive in snow.

And don’t even get me started on how we NEVER get a peep of national news coverage for our regularly occurring  hurricane force winter winds.  I’ve seen roofs ripped off and small children picked up off the sidewalk.  But then again, we are Alaskans.  We simply go on with our lives and deal with it.  We’d probably be embarrassed if someone made an issue out of it.

Working in tourism I get asked weather questions all the time.  These would be the times when asking about the weather pretty much stops the conversation from moving forward:

“Will it be a nice day in Juneau when we visit on _________ (insert any day of the year here)?”

“If we take the tour in the morning, will it be raining?”

“Would it be better to take the tour in the afternoon so it’s sunnier?”

“What time of day does it rain?”

“Do you think it’s going to rain that day?”

“Is it better to visit in June or July?”

People.

Please.

If I could answer these questions, I wouldn’t be working in this industry.  Instead I’d be hosting my own reality show, foretelling futures, predicting the next President and American Idol winner.  I mean seriously, does it say “All Knowing Weather Goddess” on my forehead?  Not as of the last time I checked.   Should that suddenly change, I’ll let you know.

Lastly, what the hell is wrong with weather forecasters?  Have they not heard the saying:

It’s all fun and games until someone loses an eyeball….then it’s hey…. free eyeball!

Going out into a hurricane (or any hellish weather) to document the monster storm is as intelligent as those people who leap into the tiger cage at the zoo.  Seemed like a good idea at the time.  Again, see the quote above.  Duh.

Are television stations so desperate for ratings they’ll risk employees’ lives and limbs to get good ratings?  And how many camera men, sound techs and reporters are cursing one another under their breath for thinking THIS was a great idea?  Oh, wait.  I just figured it out!  It’s the fine print of the employment contract:  other duties as assigned.

Talk about reality shows.  You’ve got weather people along the shoreline breakers, on hotel balconies, hanging onto door knobs outside a random retail shop or best yet, in the surf itself.  My favorites are the rebels that take on the storm like a wild, wild, west gun slinger.  Sauntering  Stumbling out into the middle of Main Street…doubled over, trying to gather the last bit of energy to prove their righteous, badass self to the rest of the world.

I don’t know about you, but my bet is on the Main Street Gunslinger.

He’s going down in 3 – 2 – 1.

Winner, winner, chicken dinner…..he’s gone done….rolling down the street like a tumble-weed.  Look at that.  Just won me $20.

Note to self, when the wind is ripping your pants off – go inside.