It's My TV….It's My Peanut Butter

I’m sure most of you, gentle readers, have probably been having the same kind of completely out-of-regular-character weather episodes we’ve had around here.  If Kristy hadn’t already assured me that the Mayans say the world is going to end in earthquakes, I’d assume the whole 2012 apocalypse was getting a jump start.

Thursday night, I went for a walk to burn some of the quantities of pissed-off tension I’ve been carrying around.  I had on a sleeveless shirt and a think 3/4 sleeve cotton cardigan that I put on less for warmth than to hide my fat arms.  I didn’t need a jacked at all.

Thursday evening walk, no jacket necessary.

I was out for an hour and it was mostly dark when I returned….and I still wasn’t cold.  It was nice.  I snapped a few pictures and came back relatively not pissed off.

Friday, I was home, doing laundry and trying to recover the state of the house before the TV crew from Hoarders showed up.  I came out of the laundry room and happened to glance out the window and see, well, this:

Um, where did this come from?

Really?  REALLY?  From no jacket to a good 35 minutes of steady, heavy snowfall?!?!?

We got a noticeable cold front through here this past week.  Obviously not freezing, but it marked the beginning of hoodie-season.  If my own donning of my W&M hoodie was not enough evidence, the fact that 3 other co-workers showed up for casual Friday with their own university hoodies was definitely a deal-sealer.

I decided this would be a good time to go ahead and make my migration back upstairs for the winter.  I live a nomadic life even within this house (which belongs to my parents–I’m doing some long term house sitting for them) for energy efficiency reasons.  For the summer, I sleep downstairs in what would normally be my parents room.  For those of you that missed elementary school science, cold air is denser and sinks.  So, rather than fight that fact by running the AC longer and harder to keep my bedroom (which is on the West side of the house) comfortable, I move downstairs for the hot season.

Now that it’s cooling off, it’s time to reverse.  My room goes from uncomfortably warm to nice and toasty.  And the smaller bathrooms with lower ceilings here on the upper floor mean I don’t risk hypothermia like I do downstairs.  I still have to cook down there, but I’m pretty good at eating fast, or bringing it up here.  I’m thinking of bringing up a dedicated TV tray and chair and calling this the dining area.  And I keep an electric kettle and a stash of tea bags up here as well.

This change coincided with the end of my satellite TV and tomorrow’s end of Netflix.  I realized that the TV in the house were no longer tethered to that coax-connection on the wall.  Suddenly, the TV from my old apartment can move out of the sewing room to any bloody place I feel like putting it.  So I decided with all these changes, I’d do one more.  Something that I realized–to my great surprise–I’d not done in the nearly 10 years we’ve had this house:

Fully rearrange my room.

I can’t believe it’s been this long.  I used to be the kid that couldn’t keep my bed in the same place for 2 months running.  Off the top of my head, I can think of at least 4 different configurations I had in my room in Virginia (which was far more limited on options for arrangement).  Even my apartment had multiple iterations of arrangement.  But not here.  I’ve moved some of the smaller shelves a little this way, or a little that way.  And some items were confiscated for other rooms.  But the major pieces?  No movement more than a few inches.  My bed has been in the same position the whole time, unless you count shoving bed-risers under the legs for a time.

So, even though I have a shit-ton of housework I should be doing, I decided it was time to change things.  I felt guilty at first.  Shouldn’t I be doing dishes, or putting away laundry?  But as it came together, I’ve finally put order to some long standing chaos.  I even pulled out the picture hanging paraphernalia and got one of my prints put in place.

Apparently, I really needed this cold front to get me revved for a change.

Okay, I’m a good southern girl.  One of my DEA nicknames was “Swamp Rat”.* Summer heat and humidity, bring it on.  Hell of a lot better than the bitter winter dryness.  But even I have to call enough at some point.  I imagine most of our readers are probably sick of hearing complaints about the heat; from what I understand if you live in North American you’re probably getting hammered with recockulous heat and have been for some time.

I really shouldn’t complain too much.  Where I am we’ve only cracked 100 a couple times and I know it’s a lot worse in other places.  My Aunt in Dallas has been nearly convinced to brave Virginia winters for the rest of her life just to avoid summers like this.  For me it’s not so much the height of the mercury as the fact it won’t quit.  Where I live it’s not unusual to have hot weather, but it usually cools off at night.  Mornings are usually temperate.  But lately when I leave my not really air conditioned apartment to go to my only slightly more air conditioned office I’m already dripping with sweat.  How am I supposed to look like a dignified editor when I’m soaking wet and stinky?

And here’s what really gets me: it’s that Mother Nature is doing this to us after a bitter Winter full of snow and ice and a Spring full of tornados.  Aren’t we entitled to at least one non-record breaking season?  Can I please, please beg for a reasonable Fall?  You people keep telling me that Mother Nature doesn’t really hate me, but the evidence seems to suggest otherwise.  (I repeat:  If it’s just that she has kinky ways of showing her affection can I please have a safe word?)  Yes, yes, I know this is just her revenge for all the crap we do to the environment, but I didn’t do it!  Please, Mother Nature, I’ll be good.  I’ll campaign to make my county start recycling.  I’ll do anything, just give us a break!

*If you’re wondering why I have a DEA nickname you’ll have to check out the tell all book I’m not actually writing I’m Not that Kind of Intern and Other Useful Spanish Phrases.

On Saturday night, for some inexplicable reason, I felt an overwhelming sense of dread at an impending thunderstorm.  Enough that I opted to move immediately down to my parent’s room where I would be sure I’d hear the weather radio go off.  I’ve done this before.  Outside of my stint in Virginia, I’ve spent my entire life in tornado alley.  My elementary school had more tornado drills than fire drills.  I have a very, very healthy respect for mother nature during the spring.

The difference this time was that it wasn’t just respect.  I was really scared.  The paralyzing, irrationally stupid kind of scared like I haven’t been since I was 7 and would bring blankets and pillows and dolls and curl up in our hallway, pleading with the rest of the family to join me lest we all be ripped to shred’s by a tornado.  This used to happen every time a thunderstorm came up, and batten down the hatches if that little cartoon tornado showed up in the lower part of the TV screen to indicated a “Tornado Watch.”  Complete melt down.  My fear of tornadoes was matched only by my fear of snakes and that “bad guys” were destined to break into our home at night and use my bedroom window as the primary point of entry (honestly, it was the best option–accessible, yet not easily visible).

Some how, some way, after a lot of nights spent awake and terrified, I got a grip.  I still fear tornadoes, but all of those school drills and the visits from the local meteorologist  eventually paid off, and I feel I know how to handle it.  And moving back to this particularly active part of tornado alley has only improved things because, unlike in Texas, we have a basement (which we were all taught was the BEST place to be….but which didn’t exist anywhere in our Texas town except that half-basement under the Lutheran church).  I also have the most impressive meteorologists of any place I’ve ever lived before (Dallas/Ft. Worth might be a larger media market, but their weather casts are a total joke) who are not afraid to interrupt anything in prime time to show me that hook echo on the map.

All this is to say, that while I’m still the first one in my family to heed the weather forecaster when she’s on TV berating anyone who is not taking cover in a tornado warning (yes, ladies and gentlemen, our weather forecasters scold us on live TV), I don’t melt down anymore.  And I don’t waste time worrying.

So it was doubly horrifying to have that feeling again, especially when there was nothing on the weather radio to justify it.

Of course, the next day, Joplin, Mo. got whacked.  A place I drove through repeatedly going to and from Dallas has been blitzed beyond recognition.

My irrational fear is feeling rationalized, and that’s not good.

I’m still maintaining some sense of logic.  I know that this tornado season seems scarier than usual since things are hitting population centers.  It’s not really any more tornadoes than usual, it’s just that they’re hitting the wrong places–towns instead of open corn fields, houses instead of empty hay-sheds.  I also know that while I use those fabulous weather casters as my safety net, some people have grown complacent.  With so much weather warning, they go numb and stop listening, so that when it’s really game-time, they’re not paying attention.

I also know that I have that basement, and that I’m not going to take those great warning systems for granted, and I sleep with shoes nearby (why shoes?  Do you want to be barefoot in the kind of debris you see post-tornado?).  I still have the kind of respect you need to have for this kind of weather.

But that’s not stopping me from two nights of fitful sleep interrupted by panic at the sound of thunder and heart-pounding at the thought of sleeping through the sirens, or not being able to find the cat in time to run downstairs.  I’ve found myself lying awake in bed, tense and waiting for the weather alarm to sound, and contemplating just picking up my pillows and blankets and the cat and going do to sleep in the basement.

I’m all for reliving parts of my childhood, but this is not the part I wanted.

Tis the season for the midwest to get its usual series of wolloping thunderstorms.  Actually, it’s been fairly mild so far this year (knock on wood).  However, tonight we’re getting a nice dose of thunder and lightening.

One of the first lessons I ever learned about severe weather safety (even before the tornado rule about interior widowless rooms on the lowest floor…hugging a toilet if possible) was “Do not take a bath during a lightening storm.”

Trouble is, it seems that these storms always want to kick up around the time I need to get in the shower.  Whiskey Tango Foxtrot!  So I sit around wasting time waiting for it to clear off so I can get my shower and get to bed, OR I have to put it off until morning which introduces a whole new level of evil to the Time Vampire (and Time Vamp that results in me having to roust my lazy ass out of the bed any earlier is unacceptable.  Especially since I get up around 4:50-5ish these days).

And if it’s not the safety issue impacting my shower, it’s the impact on prime time TV.  Time set aside for Bones is spent with break ins to warn me about when to go to the basement.  I have to resort to next-day Hulu, which means more time out of my schedule.

Big plans to mow the yard?  Yeah, now you have to wait because mowing right after it’s rained is a bitch.

So, I’m off to a night of fitful sleep interrupted by the squawk of the weather radio and with the knowledge that I have to get up extra early for my shower/using the blow-dryer tomorrow.  *grumble*

Last week at this time it was so cold that the moisture in my eyes and nose froze while I was waiting for the bus.  Today it was warm enough I didn’t feel comfortable leaving a bottle of wine in my car for half an hour.  People talk as though this kind of sudden temperature shift is a southern Indiana peculiarity.  That might me true, but it’s hardly a unique one.  Spending a large chunk of my life in southeastern Virginia, I’m used to this.

Which is why I know better than to trust it.

My first winter in Virginia, which was more or less my first winter ever on account of before that time the furthest north I’d lived was Myrtle Beach, South Carolina, taught me better.  That winter everyone told us that Virginia winters weren’t that bad, didn’t include much snow, and were nothing to worry about.  Well it turned out that winter (not unlike this one) was one of the worst that area had experienced in recorded memory.  And February was the worst.

On February 17^th (I remember the date because it was my sister’s birthday) it snowed for more than 24 hours straight and we got eighteen inches of snow.  The next weekend was 80 degrees.  The weekend after that we had an actual blizzard and another thirteen inches of snow.  And then I decided to move back to Florida.  Clearly that part didn’t work out.

So I can’t quite rejoice in this week’s balmy temperatures.  In the back of my head I know that next weekend could very easily be a blizzard.  I know that this could just be Mother Nature lulling me into a false sense of security.  But I won’t be fooled.  Uh uh.  Not this time.

I need to find another addictive online game about as much as I need another 6 inches of snow to shovel off my driveway.  But, like the weather, some things are just beyond my control.  The latest in the list? Magic Pen.

The object is simple–which is always key in the addictiveness of a game–you get the red ball to roll across the little flags.

You, armed with a crayon and some vague idea that making things bump into a ball will make it roll, are in charge of drawing in whatever shapes you need to guide that red ball as well as figuring out how to get that ball rolling.  It’s the most subtle lesson in Newtonian physics you’ll ever find yourself loathe to part from.  It’s so addictive that I actually found myself paying more attention to manipulating the path of that stupid red ball than I did to the new episode of Bones (which is unheard of for me).

And with that, I will leave you to get your own ball rolling.  I have a game to get back to.

I’m sorry to disappoint those of you who were hoping to see all Kristy posts here (among the disappointed?  Me), but I did return from Oz and apparently I have to take up my portion of the slack.

As with most cases of international travel, I learned a few things that maybe I should have known, found some more things to be jealous of Australia for having (TimTams), and found some things about right here at home that I’d taken for granted.

Like the weather.

Not the actual events in weather–rain, sun, what have you–but weather reports.

I’m a product of tornado alley, a place that kind of turns one into a weather-forecast connoisseur.  It’s not enough to have the high and low temperature.  I didn’t spend so many elementary school science classes learning the markings for a stationary front for nothing.  I want hourly temperature forecasts.  I want satellite.  I want radar.  I want wind speeds.  I want to know what’s coming at me a minimum of 2 days before it gets here.  By damnit, I can’t control the weather, but I can sure as hell know what’s coming at me.

Exposing me to Australia’s excuse for weather reports was kind of like taking an oenophile and locking them up with nothing but Manischewitz.  In the three weeks I spent down there not once did I see a tv weather report (or hear a radio weather report) that was even as comprehensive as Al Roker’s reports on the Today show.  I nearly lost it.

First of all, if you’re not in a major city (or at least a major city for your region–after all, Alice Springs is half the size of my suburban town), you’re not going to get jack from most sources.  Sometime we’d catch a bit on ABC which would show a few more places, including one that was only an hour down the road from my parents and thus a moderately appropriate approximation of the temperatures they would experience.

Second, assuming you catch some manner of report that relates to an area near you, you’re going to get a grand package of the high, the low, if it’s rain or shine, and, if you are very lucky, a synoptic chart with the wind directions.  No 3 day forecast.  No “power doppler” that can show the hook echo so you know exactly where the tornado is.  No cadre of amateur weather nerds who send in photos of the snow fall totals in their backyards.  Want to know if it’s going to rain tomorrow?  Well, you’ll just have to wait until tomorrow, and if it’s wet, you’ll know–they’re not going to spoil you.

I’m not sure if it’s just broadcast media that’s so devoid of weather reports.  I didn’t manage to get into the news agency to pick up a paper.  And I know there’s probably something more comprehensive online–but internet access is not as ubiquitous there as it is here (and sure isn’t as cheap).  All I know is that if you’re stuck with radio and TV only, it’s a damn good thing tornadoes aren’t as prevalent there.

I realize that between the 10 year drought the Australian continents been dealing with (nothing like weather monotony), and the low population density, it’s probably not easy to justify the kind of infrastructure you need for the 10 day look ahead in every corner of the country.  I can accept that.

But it made me all the more delighted to be back here at home where my local weather-dude has been refining his prediction for a winter weather blast twice a day for the past two days,  to the point that I knew that if I want beer, I need to get it by 6pm tomorrow.  Poor Australia.  How do you know when you need to get the beer today to avoid going out in the storm tomorrow????

It’s been cool, dry and sunny for a week here.  I’ve been taking advantage of this one by leaving the windows open.

You see where this is going, right?

Yeah.  Every window open.  About 2 in the afternoon, I overhead someone coming past my cube at work telling another co-worker he’s going to need an umbrella.

Shit.

So, my head pops up out of the cube like a prairie dog out of burrow.

“Seriously?  Is it raining hard?”

“Not hard, but steady.”

Crap.

Not much I can do from work, and by the time I could get home the rain would be over.  So, I came home to wet carpet, thankfully only in one room.  Yeah, because I needed this to happen with my folks coming in this week.  Fantastic.

In an age of weather reports literally at my fingertips, you’d think I’d figure out how to prevent things like this….

The great summer outdoors experiment has been mostly a bust.  Yes, overall, I did manage to spend more time out of doors than I have in the past decade or more of summers, but it wasn’t nearly as much as I’d hoped for.  The hammock spent a lot more time hanging in the basement than outside, and while I grew a lot of food outside,between my work schedule and the uncharacteristic humidity, I didn’t consume much of it there.

But, as with most things, the good part often comes at the end.  Yes, gentle readers, as I type this, I am in the hammock, outside, on a sunny, gorgeous made-to-order day with low humidity and a current temperature of 73 degrees with a light breeze.  Here on what most people use as the weekend marking the end of summer, I’m finally getting some outdoor enjoyment.

And just for today, I’m not going to say better late than never.  I’m just going to bask in moment and hope that there are many more like it next year.