Your Time And Weather Is ...

"Does anybody know what time it is?  Does anybody really care?" 

This is a line from one of my favorite "Chicago" songs (the group, not the musical), and it always crosses my mind twice a year when I wake up on a Sunday morning, look at my clock, and softly begin to cry. 

Of course, that's before the screaming starts. 

"WHY?  WHY?  WHY DO WE HAVE TO DO THIS???"  I run around the house, pull dusty clocks off walls, move the rusty little wheels, and know in six months I get to do it again.  And, of course, there's always at least ONE clock I'll forget, and it's usually the one sitting upstairs at the top of the hall.  So, after I've forgotten it, I leave it alone out of spite.  I also get crazy about the clock in my car...I refuse to touch it, because that involves my having to pull out the Chevrolet HHR mini-encyclopedia that I keep in the glove compartment.  I can never remember how to set the clock, and I resent having to look it up.  So, for half the year, I drive around with my friends saying, "Do you know your time is wrong?"*  Of course I do.  I'm proud of being behind my time.  I do feel some qualms of guilt, though, when I remember how it used to confuse my poor mother.  She didn't realize that I stopped adjusting the clock.  She just thought the car engine magically displayed the correct time, so it never occurred to her it wasn't correct.  We'd get out of the car, go into some restaurant and Mom would ask me what time it was.  She'd be horrified when I'd tell her, and she ended up thinking time was passing a lot faster than it actually was.  That's a mean thing to do to an old person.

(By the way, If you want to know more of the history behind this time-changing madness, and really want to live in a world where we stop messing with our internal and external clocks, visit:  http://www.standardtime.com/  .)

I wholeheartedly reject Daylight Savings Time.  I feel our lives are complicated enough without our government deliberately mixing things up.  (I will pause for a moment until the general laughter dies down.)  And yes, while I appreciate the longer days Spring and Summer naturally bring, I don't see a need to have daylight still happening while I'm trying to enjoy my prime time television.  I'll be sitting on my couch after working hard all day ... trying to watch "The Amazing Race" ... and I'll hear the backyard whispering ... "Awww, come on out!  Weed a garden!  It's still light out!"**

And don't even get me started on the internal messiness.  I know everybody's going to be in a rotten mood at work tomorrow, including people who actually made it to work on time.  Yeah, I know what the experts say ... to avoid this angst, we're supposed to force ourselves to go to bed earlier, 15 minutes a night, so that our internal clocks are ready for the change.  Really...who does this?***

So yes, rainy days and time changes always get me down. 

It used to be ... in olden times ... when I was sad, lonely, bored, and really confused about which coat to wear outside, I'd turn to my old friend ... The Weather Channel.  TWC was always there for me.  When I needed excitement, I could always look for my pal, Jim Cantore, cowering on some pier in South Carolina waiting for the next hurricane to blow him into the sea.  When I needed to feel better about myself (and let's face it, people living in Cleveland always need more self-esteem, our sports teams suck), I could turn on TWC and watch some blizzard kicking the crap out of Minnesota and think, "Cool, at least I'm not living THERE!"   And when I needed a weather forecast RIGHT NOW, I knew I could count on my "Local on the 8's" to deliver exactly what I needed and when I needed it. 

I think, for many of us, TWC was the first reality television programming to reel us in.  When the channel began in 1982, I can remember many people ridiculing it.  They'd scoff, "Who's going to tune in to watch a channel that only talks about WEATHER?"****

Now, I understand that in some parts of the country, TWC probably doesn't get a lot of traffic.  Why do people in San Francisco (which I understand is a really big city in California) need a forecast when the only thing that matters is what time the fog's rolling in so the locals know when to go outside and laugh at all the tourists freezing to death?  Why do people in LA need a forecast when they spend their entire lives sitting inside their cars waiting for traffic to move?  And why do people in Florida (aka: "Jurassic Park") need any forecast from March until October...it's hot, sticky, and storms every afternoon at 3 o'clock. 

But here in the Midwest, a LOT of folks watch TWC because our weather ranges from moody to psychotic.  We never know what's really happening out there. Last March, it was 80 degrees and the minimum-wage workers at Walmart were scrambling to get the pools and patio furniture put out on display.  This March, it's been in the 30s and 40s and we're all cranky and achy.*****  So, when I turn on TWC this time a year, I'm looking for reassurance that it's someday going to warm up and stay that way. 

But what I'm NOT looking for are these weird programs The Weather Channel is airing now. When did they start launching shows like "Storm Stories" and "Ice Road Truckers" and "Thrill-Seeking, Brain-Damaged Idiots In Cars Running From Tornadoes"?******  There is nothing more annoying to me than when I turn that channel on to get my forecast and I am looking at somebody showing us all how to build an igloo in Alaska.

Oh, wait ... there is something more annoying than that. 

Who at TWC thought it was a clever idea to name WINTER storms?  I'm willing to put up with guys' names being used on hurricanes, but a winter storm named "Saturn" ... are you kidding me?  I could go on and on about how bat-crap crazy this makes me, but it's a sunny day******* outside and I need to get going on some yard work.  I just looked at the clock, and it's a lot later than I thought. 

Good thing I'm not upstairs. 




*It always amazes me that people who've known me for years still ask me that question.


**Of course, after I ignore those whispers, the house usually chimes in with, "Get up off your ass, you lazy slacker, and clean out this closet! JUST DO IT!"


***Probably the same souls who plan their meals to correspond with the USDA's food pyramid.


****Of course, these days, we have channels devoted to shopping, home decorating and food preparation, so the weather looks pretty darn exciting next to all that.  I keep waiting for the premiere of the PDC (the Paint-Drying Channel).


*****Along with my other five favorite dwarfs, "Snotty, Sneezy, Weepy, Whiny and Pooped."



******Did I get the name right?


******* I think I'll call this one "Fred." 

Animal House

These are not easy times. 

Here's a fun game.  See if you can match up the correct noun with the adjectives that most accurately describes it:

1. The U.S. government                          a) lost and confused
2. The Catholic church                            b) leaderless and confused
3. Cleveland, Ohio                                  c) depressed and confused
4. My brain                                              d) just really, really confused
5. My house                                             e) overrun by knuckleheads

It's Monday, and I'm not in the mood to deal with a lot of confusion...so, let's focus our attention on number 5 ... my house ... which is, in fact, overrun by knuckleheads.  I include myself in that group, because ever since Mom died in January, I have come to realize that I've gone completely out of my mind and now I'm really, really confused.  I wake up confused.  I go to bed confused. I'm really thrilled when I get to go to work because it's the one thing in my life that seems to make sense.*
But then I get to come home to a house that used to have my Mom in it and now it doesn't, and the confusion starts all over again. 

And somewhere  ... in the middle of all this confusion ... two cougars moved into my house. 

It began shortly after my Mom passed.  My nephew decided to move to another house, and asked me to temporarily take care of his two kittens.  They were little gray tabbies, very sweet-natured, and I was assured they wouldn't be much trouble.  Billy told me their names - which I promptly forgot ten minutes after he left - so I decided to name them Sheldon and Leonard (given that the networks re-run episodes of "The Big Bang Theory" almost constantly, I thought it would be helpful if the boys heard their names every five minutes.) 

S and L have been living with me for several weeks now, and I don't know when they're leaving.  Frankly, I will be sorry when they do leave, because they're wonderful boys and I love them dearly (although my cat, Miss Kitty, wishes they would run outside and get hit by cars).  But, you know what happens with kittens?  They grow into cats ... and, in this case, these two are BIG cats.  Huge.  Mountain lions. When these brothers chase each other up and down the stairs, it sounds like the buffalo have returned to the Great Plains.  Even now, as I type this blog entry, I can hear them knocking each other senseless upstairs and it sounds like we're having a thunderstorm. As long as I don't hear glass breaking, I figure everybody's okay and hopefully today my house insurance premiums won't go up. 

You have to understand ... I grew up as a DOG person.  My folks always had dogs, I loved dogs, I still love dogs.  I have never EVER chosen to have a cat.  Years ago, when I lived in Chicago, I thought it would be nice to volunteer at my local animal shelter, and I wasn't there more than 48 hours before some nice lady with a very sad face asked me to "foster" an abandoned calico cat and her kittens.  I didn't know what I was doing.  I bought a litter box, some litter, some food, crossed my fingers and hoped for the best.  I never gave any of them real names because I didn't want to get too attached to some cats I knew I wouldn't keep. So, I sort of got into the habit of calling the momma cat "Miss Kitty" and each of her three babies, "Stop That You Idiot." The kittens were all eventually put up for adoption, and were - happily - adopted the same day, but the momma cat had litter box issues...mainly, she occasionally forgot to poop in it, and I'd find her tootsie rolls outside the box. When I mentioned her toilet lapses to the Person In Charge at the Shelter, I was told she would not be put up for adoption and would likely be put down.  This was not about to happen in Brenda's Universe, so Miss Kitty (it was too late to give her a better name) came to live with me permanently.  That was 16 years ago.

She is, of course, the darling of my life.  She's sweet and petite (two qualities I highly admire, being neither) and she's turned out to be an excellent companion.  Never weighing more than six pounds, she's often invisible and never a disruption.  She's very affectionate and loves kisses.

"Miss Kitty"  aka:  Cat.  Very Cute.

Once "the boys" moved in, however, Miss Kitty Congeniality turned into The Saber-Toothed Vampire Cat From Hell.  Not only am I now living with three cats, it also sounds like I'm living with a psychotic python, because whenever "the boys" invade her territory,** her incessant hissing starts.  The boys don't hiss.  They're huge, they're happy, and they believe that everyone in the world must love them unconditionally because they're just so darned cute and all.  They do not understand that Miss Kitty does not want to play... today or any other day.  They do not understand she is old and f***ed up. And they do not understand that when she hisses at them from the couch, it means they should leave her alone and drop dead.  These knuckleheads are also not extremely bright.  Leonard has absolutely no grace, and can't figure out how to jump up on furniture without promptly skidding off the other end... and I've seen him eat at least three things off my carpet, none of which I've been able to identify and none of which, so far, has sent us to the emergency room. Sheldon, on the other hand, has a passion for water.  His favorite recreational activity is to shove his heavy ceramic water bowl across the bedroom floor until all the water splashes out.  I have patiently tried to explain to him that he's not going to have anything to drink if he keep it up, but he has a tiny kitty brain that has the attention span of dirt.  I know I'm not getting through ... but, being the biggest knucklehead living here, I keep trying. 

"The Boys"  aka: "Pumas."

(Note:  See the rocking chair?  You should never ever have one of these if you have cats.)

And they never - EVER - stop pooping.  I clean litter boxes constantly.  At the rate these boys are eating, they will soon be the size of Great Danes. 

So, here we are.  It's Monday and I have to go to work.  My brain is insane, my house is insane, our government is insane, my future seems hopeless and my church is Popeless.  The animals have completely taken over.  I am looking out my bedroom window and see a herd of deer stealing birdseed out of my bird feeder.   There is a flock of sparrows sitting on the bush outside my window screaming at me about all this.  I am very, very confused about it all.

But ... I think ... maybe, just maybe ... it's okay, because I think this means Somebody Up There is still in charge.  And whoever He is, He's making sure that although I might be very confused, I'm never truly alone. 


*And then I remember that I work for the U.S. government. 

**Uh, that would be the ENTIRE house.  All of it.  Every last inch, it's hers, all hers, get out.

***These don't indicate a footnote.  These take the place of actual letters so I'm not guilty of writing a bad word.