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December 9th, 1999

The Weather Channel

Excuse me. Where the heck is my snow? We were supposed to get a foot dumped on us last night and I'd venture to say I could go barefoot today if I wanted to. Okay, my feet would be really damned cold, but I could still go shoeless. Just a few sprinkles to speak of and nothing else. What a weather rip-off.

Not much is happening in my life this week. I started a new book last night and I'm already 100 pages into it. "O is for Outlaw" by Sue Grafton. Wonder what she's gonna do when she runs out of alphabet? Start on Sanskrit or something? Maybe she can make up a fancy little design and be known as "The Author formally known as Grafton."

I've been sitting here addressing Christmas cards for my office all day. I'm the only girl here -- hence, the only one with legible handwriting -- so I am about two hundred envelopes through. I did make all of the men sign each and every card. You should have heard them whining.

"But that's why we put the company name on them!"

"I don't want to write my name that much!"

"Can't you just do it?"

To which I informed them if they expected me to handwrite a zillion envelopes they could damned-well sign their name or get ready to do some serious writing when I toss all of the envelopes in their faces. They all signed. Imagine that.

I don't know what it is about being a woman. When I first started here it was a natural assumption that, being the office's token chick, I would be the one to answer the phone.

I'd sit at my desk and watch it ring and ring and ring. It was apparent that not a single one of them was doing a thing but they would still sit there waiting for me to fetch the receiver. This went on until one day when I hollered,

"IS IT BECAUSE I HAVE BREASTS!!!!"

They don't make me answer the phone anymore.

And now, on that note, back to weather.



My husband is addicted to the weather channel. All weather, all the time. Snow for the flaky, rain for the drips, and weather, weather, weather. I think I'm just terribly jeoulous that someone took something as readily available as weather and is now making money with it. There is nothing readily available in my house that would make a good channel.

THE LAUNDRY CHANNEL: All laundry, all the time. Witness the mysterious disappearance of those extra socks. Didn't you always wonder who took them? Now is your chance! All laundry, all the time.

THE BABY'S ROOM CHANNEL: Just switch the channel. No one really wants to know what a baby is doing when they are quiet like that, do they?

THE LITTERBOX CHANNEL: All crap, all the time. Oh, wait. They already have this channel. It's the weather one.

My husband is obsessed with the change of weather.

"We haven't had a drought like this in almost twenty-years!" he tells me.

"That's unfair. We weren't even dating then."

I think he just likes to sound smart. I have no desire to be filled with all of this weather information. If I want to know the weather, I just look out the window. I like surprises like that. Why be over prepared?

I cannot tell you how many times I have ventured into the living room only to find him planted on the sofa, remote in hand, watching a big-teethed college cheerleader reject spouting out atmospheric regional weather patterns as an animated comic sun hops behind her head like a Saturday morning cartoon.

"Is that Marie Osmond? Wow, she has more teeth on her than your comb does."

He smirks at me and says nothing.

"Why, might I ask, are you even watching this?"

"I just want to know the weather."

I look at the television.

"In Toledo, Ohio? What possible bearing does the fact it is raining in Toledo have on your life? Are you not telling me something?'

"What's the big deal? I like the weather."

It seems I am not the only woman with this problem. I once discussed it at length with a friend of mine and she suggested that maybe he had missed his calling; perhaps he should have been a meteorologist.

"My husband? A Weather Guy?" I laughed so hard I was crying "Oh God, pass me a Kleenex. Ha ha ha ha!"

"What so funny about that?"

"I can just see the news cast. My sofa in a big back yard with my husband sitting upon it waiting for the first snowflake to hit his head. I cannot imagine that he could gather up the energy to do a weather broadcast unless, perhaps, they let him watch the Weather Channel first but that would be defeating the purpose wouldn't it?"

I just don't understand the draw. I am beginning to think that when I leave the room the weather girls watch me go, wink at my hubby, shuck off their clothes to reveal edible undies and then pop open a keg after spiking a football into the carpet.
   

Unless otherwise specified, all material
Copyright 1999 by
Marijke Hildreth

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