The other white meat

Sunday evening, I made carpaccio for M and me for dinner. I know, making carpaccio is a little like dry cleaning...you don't really DO anything, you just display it real nice. Nonetheless, M and I had a lovely supper of it with arugula, cherry tomato salad with fresh Parmesan shavings.

We were watching the end of the first (and only comprehensible) Pirates of the Caribbean movie with the kids. They were eating macaroni and cheese out of the box. They weren't eating it out of the box, but it was the variety that comes in a box. Ew. Fluorescent orange cheese is wrong wrong wrong. I've been trying to convert the kids to the frozen variety, made with real milk, real cheese and of a natural hue, but no go.

Anyway, the kids were sitting at the fireplace, their designated eating zone outside of the kitchen, and M and I were hunched over our plates. In case you're wondering about my parenting skills, and let's be honest, you should be, we only eat in front of the TV on Fridays and Sundays. Friday night is movie night, and it's a fun treat to eat in the family room (kids on the hearth only) and we eat a fun dinner followed by popcorn during the movie. However, M and I are un-fun parents, and there is a bedtime, even on Fridays. So, if the movie goes long, or we get a late start, the movie has to be continued on Sunday. Not Saturdays, because that's when M and I try to go out. So, to bring you back up to date, it's Sunday, because the first Pirates movie is like 10 hours long when broadcast on ABC Family with commercials, even if we fast forward through them.

Cat is sitting outside the door. He's chewing on something. A closer look reveals a baby squirrel. Oh, fantastic. Squirrel carpaccio. Ugh. My appetite sank down to Davy Jones' Locker. I go outside to find that Cat, has in fact, gone all Jeffrey Dahmer on Sunday: 2 snakes, a blue jay, and aforementioned squirrel.

This is what happens when he manages to get his bell collar off. Death, dismemberment. (Actually, I don't think the snakes can be dismembered, since they have no, um, members.)

What the hell? (In case you're wondering--that's a tail. Apparently, the only inedible part of a squirrel.)

We feed the cat. Actual cat food. From a bag and/or a can. A lot. Good, healthy food and water, and the occasional leftover meat from dinner. We have provided a reasonably psychosis-free environment for the cat. In short, as parents, we have done nothing specific to raise a murderous freak. Yet, he killed representatives from the major animal kingdoms: reptile, bird and mammal. Clooney was looking mighty nervous.

That's the part that's so disturbing--the cat is killing for the hell of it. We have no assurance that he won't turn against us! Despite our affections, hospitality and substantial food budget. We've failed as cat parents! Right now, our kids seem normal-ish. But what if they decide that they're more like their feline pet than their canine pet? What if they're not all sweet and loyal and earnest, but instead grow up to be sadistic indifferent raw-squirrel eaters?

This is not good precedent. That's all I'm saying.

Dear New York, we don't care. Love, EVERYONE ELSE

So here's the thing (my brother-in-law LOVES it when I say that)--the east coast got a little sampling of what it's like to live in the rest of the country this week. And I say this with bitterness, of course, because what am I except bitter?

EVERYBODY LOVES NEW YORK. I got the memo. But the thing is, New Yorkers are kinda obnoxious. I know, I'm speaking from Alabama, the epicenter of moonshine swillin', incest-havin', NASCAR drivin' rednecks. I didn't forget. And New Yorkers do a LOT of stuff well, don't get me wrong: fashion, culture, and weight management leap to mind. BUT they're kind of media whores.

They also like to spend money on things like third basemen, itty-bitty condos, shoes, houses in the Hamptons. But, mostly, they like to be the center of the universe. Galileo would have had his work cut out with New Yorkers. What is this you say, Galileo? 'Tis not a Pomum Magnus-centric solar system, nay universe? Heretic! Death by New Jersey!

So, when the big quake hit this week, everyone on the eastern seaboard ducked and covered like good little 4th graders in a school drill. Except New Yorkers, who were like, meh. That wasn't an earthquake. I barely felt it. Too cool for school. BUT then, the Leno-ite, west coasters were like, oh MY GOD. The media is like totally freakin' out over like the smallest earthquake EVAH. Then, the New York Times ran a blog about how mean spirited the west coasters were. How they diminished the New Yorkers' tragedy of a the earthquake of the millenium. (What?!? It IS the first earthquake of the milennium. Or, rather, the ONLY.) Which left the valley girls sputtering, bbbbut? Like, nobody was hurt, and like your Louis Vuitton is like still ok. And Bloomingdales' only lost like a couple of things off the shelves, and like....WAIT A SECOND! What the hell did we do wrong?

True that, valley girls. Everything in New York is IMPORTANT. It AFFECTS things. Never you mind about Northridge, or Oakland, or that quaint little trading outpost you had up north that burned to the ground 100 years ago. That San? Something? I think it's famous for bread and poor people jeans, and NOT EVERYTHING ELSE, like New York.

THEN, as if God was heaping disaster upon catastrophe, and punishing the Jews and Homosexuals, he sent a tropical storm up the coast. New Yorkers, taken aback, were aghast that a natural disaster normally reserved for the mouth breathers of the Gulf South and the hilbillies of the South East was headed their way. How could THIS happen?

Everyone from the Weather Channel bimbos to the President of the United States was sounding the alarm about HISTORIC HURRICANE IRENE. Evacuate Manhattan! Close the subways! Save the Guggenheim! Tell your nannies to hide the children! Preserve Wall Street! Use the New Jersey trash islands to fortify the city! AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHH!

They (and by they, I mean the liberal media) want us to know that the center of the world is in danger, because that's the only way they can get the entire western civilization to pay attention to New York all at once (unless they could arrange a Mets-Yankees World Series, and I suspect Fox Sports is working on this as we speak), and New Yorkers love that. They bask in it like the warm sun glancing off a yellow cab. But, of course, New Yorkers are blase and un-ruffle-able, so they have martini parties and catered hurricane shindigs, just to prove that they are too resilient to fear THE STORM OF THE CENTURY.

Now, the next time a Katrina barrels up the Mississippi River and an entire city is nearly wiped off the map, we'll have to hear all the people up in the Big Apple say, "hurricane? Pshaw. We've been through that. It's no big deal. We had a HISTORIC hurricane here in '11 and I weathered it with lobstah and Grey Goose. What's wrong with that New Or-lee-ans? They lack New York fortitude."

So, New-York centric media and the good citizens of Metropolis, I say this: stop blowin' crap outta proportion. You lose your authority. You're like parents who yell at their kids all the time and then when you REALLY need them to listen, they don't care. Do not hit the panic button until it is time to do so. I do not want to see anymore pictures of urban dwellers in the rain without power. There is tragedy, out there, people. Rain ain't it.

Security warning

I suppose there comes a certain time when a security blanket slowly declines in necessity and disappears. A time when sleep comes easily on a mere pillow. When good dreams are assured without its presence. I suppose there is a time when that happens.

I just haven't reached it yet.

No. I'm kidding. Sort of. I mean, it's true, I DO have a security blanket. Only now it's not for security, so much..exactly.

When I was a kid, I suffered from chronic ear infections. Nothing comforted, eased, and consoled quite like an antibiotic and my blankie. The blankie was a crocheted affair of green and yellow and white. The stitch was open and airy and Blankie was always cool and soothing on my aching ear. Blankie was a fantastic companion, but mind you, only at night. I, unlike Linus, didn't drag poor Blankie everywhere. For even at that tender age, I understood needless travel would shorten its lifespan.

And to good purpose, might I say. Blankie stayed with me even as medical science cured my ear infections. Blankie spent each day tucked safely under my pillow, and each night as a cool cushion atop my pillow for a nightmare-free sleep. Blankie ventured out to grandma's house and on vacation, but only under constant vigilance and care.

Blankie led a very sheltered life. But an important one. Instead of earaches, eventually, Blankie eased parents' punishment and broken heart.

Blankie eventually moved to Evanston with me. Blankie did a lot of propping up my head while I read away many a winter's night. Blankie eventually went international, moving with me to Toronto. Blankie stuck with me when a husband replaced it as preferred cushion, consoler, and confidant.

Of course, after 31 years, Blankie eventually wore out. The light, airy stitches gave way to holes. The green, yellow white varied yarn faded to a mossy blech color. The nail polish crust in the center softened, but never quite disappeared.

In the interest of preserving Blankie (perhaps the Smithsonian will want it someday), I decided it needed to be retired. Not given away or (perish the thought!) thrown away, but retired. I found Blankie a safe bin in my closet, protected from dust bunnies and comfortably far from the Goodwill pile. Blankie took up good company with its old friend, Teddy, who retired when my first puppy thought it was a chew toy.

What does some one do when she finds herself in her early 30s and in the market for a new transitional object? Knit one, of course. I obtained some purple (if I'm makin' my own, I'm choosin' my color) yarn and set to work. But, let's be honest, people. I wasn't knitting the Mona Lisa. I didn't make beautiful, scalloped stitches. I didn't go back and fix mistakes. I was knitting for speed. Blankie was fading fast--I don't think there was another wash left in it--and the replacement needed to be ready to step up. Quickly.

Well, haste is not, probably, the best quality for a knitter. Purple Blankie cannot be trusted. As it turns out, slipped stitches in a knitted blanket can become lethal in your sleep. I woke up a few nights ago to find Purple Blankie's mistakes wrapped around my neck in an attempt to strangle me. I'm not inclined to find its motives, be they vengeance, feelings of inadequacy to Blankie, or anger at being left under the pillow all day. Whatever the reason, Purple Blankie is out to get me, and it must be stopped. Just look at those traitorous tentacles:

Fortunately, my parents took a road trip last fall and brought me all kinds of crap from the attic of their house. Some of the crap was crap, but there are 3 promising Purple Blankie replacements: None of the candidates are as soft as Blankie or even Purple Blankie for that matter. All of the candidates have the drawback of being partly or entirely pink. None of the candidates appeal to me in that basic, essential, I will cradle your head and make your sleep more comfortable way.

There was a reason those inferior blankies were left in the attic all those years. They suck. However, in these busy times, a woman just isn't able to carve out a weekend to knit herself a new blankie. The blankies sold in stores now are over-hyped microfiber, not knitted covers. The microfiber fails to stay cool and cushiony. It gets all hot and matted. Good for covering drooly babies, not good for guaranteeing my comfort on the pillow. Ergo, I find myself choosing between the losers who didn't cut it as my security blanket when I was an infant.

My life has come full circle.

I'm testing out my options. I'll let you know when one of the losers emerge as a 'winner.'

Life's classroom

Sure, I felt a little guilty about sending my older child, E down that steep hill on his bike. I knew that scraped knees and elbows were probably waiting for him at the bottom. On the other hand, this child is my risk-averse, fearful, 9 year-old not confident on his two wheeler. My child who fears failure so much that most of the time he won’t even try. I gave him this push, metaphorical and literal, towards the boundaries of his comfort zone and beyond. I sent him down that hill to show him that failure is the worst that can happen.
As it turns out, always the overachiever, E, failed in fantastic style. In snow skiing, his fall would have been known as the ski chalet-various paraphernalia splayed around him like in a shop. I ran to the scene of blood and sweat and dirt and tears and anger and failure. I consoled, I assured, I praised him for taking the plunge. I convinced him to get back on, and while I couldn’t get him to try that steep hill again, we did finish the ride. Back home.
Summer, the season of bike riding and exploring, of collecting frogs and beetles, of jump rope and swimming races and stickball and secret picnics in secret forts is the true classroom of our childhood. As these glorious (though unreasonably hot) months draw to an end, kids and moms alike bemoan the return to the stifling air conditioned classroom, the drudgery of homework, uniforms, haircuts, and carpool. We’re saddened by the end of that freedom.
While we, as responsible parents, are supposed to allow our children to fail, to experience hardship and persevere, we are also concerned about grades, and notes home from teachers, and the school district‘s permanent record. Summer is the best classroom, because failure is allowed. It’s not graded or ridiculed or lectured over. The kids are at liberty to blow it--epically--and be consoled and reassured and convinced to go on. Summer is learning with our peers and parents rather than unfamiliar teachers and intimidating principals.
As I wrapped my arms around my nearly-as-tall as I am son, snotty nose, filthy hands and bloody knees I swallowed a chuckle--the wipeout was truly spectacular--and smiled. For even as he sobbed and sniffled, he had just experienced the best lesson of the whole year. And all it cost him was the skin of his knee.
　

Oldies but Goodies

After the first few days of school, I've decided that I need a vacation. It's a shocking transition from kids ALL THE TIME to kids NONE OF THE TIME. It's also hard for them to go from daily freedom to a highly structured day at school, but let's be honest: that's their problem.

My problem is that I move from the job of referee, cruise director and short order cook to my autumn job of short order cook, chauffeur, tutor, and launderer. While both jobs have their up and downsides, they are both actual jobs. There really was no vacation time between jobs, either. And I want one.

However, the economy is in the toilet. M doesn't deserve to be saddled with the kids full time as he is going back to school as well. And, I'm not able to go jetting off to Monaco for a week of James Bond-style elegance, high stakes gambling, evening gowns, spa days and sight seeing. So I have a perfect staycation in mind.

Here's what I want: a week at the local retirement home. Yes, you heard me. Nuts? Hear me out:

In the morning, I will be woken at a decent hour. Gently, since no one wants to startle old people lest they wake up and die.

I'll be cooked healthy, low sodium meals. And, if I'm feeling lazy, some one will actually feed me.

Therapeutic massage? Yes, please.

I could have a physical therapist who would come and exercise me while I just sit in a chair.

I could sit outside in the shade and knit, undisturbed.

Nobody would notice if I spilled on myself.

I would not be responsible for anything, ANYTHING at all. I could watch daytime TV. I could eat sugar free bonbons.

I could probably get a sponge bath if I didn't feel like doing it myself. Clean enough. Meh.

I could sit in the corner, petting my dog and talking to him without anyone looking twice.

I could sit in the corner, talking to myself without anyone looking twice.

Don't get me wrong, I don't want to be sent to any low-rent crappy, pee stinkin' old folks home any more than I want to take a Carnival cruise or stay at the Motel 6. I want an upscale, resort-atmosphere retirement lifestyle. Warm pool, aquarobics, little suite of my own home sweet retirement home. I want meds to bliss me out and chill. I'd like nice, friendly staff who push me around for a walk in my chair. I'd like to sit and do sudoku in peace with all my daily needs met by some one else.

If you need me, I'll be at Leisure World. Sweatin' with the Oldies. Making crafts and eating meatloaf. Without a care in the world. But I'm only staying for a week. Don't EVEN THINK of stickin' me there for good.

Parents back to school: grade C+

It's back to school, here in Alabama. I wish I could say we go back to school so early because our education is longer, better, or in some way distinctive from other places--in a positive way--but, alas. In mid-90 temps, the kids go back to school, instead of waiting until after Labor Day when temps and therefore the cost of air conditioning would be lower, but no. We end school in the lovely month of May and go back in the soupy, hot August. I will never understand.

By and large, there's a good vibe around here about going back to school. While the kids aren't doing the 'woohoo' dance around the living room, I do think there's a general consensus that it's time to do something besides lounge around the house, play Wii, watch TV, swim, and eat bonbons. In fact, if school started later in the day, and the boys could just chill in the morning instead of being herded out the door, school would be mighty fine. Nobody, but nobody wants to get up before 6:30.

I hate packing lunches in the morning. I hate pouring juice, opening the bag o' ham and smelling deli meat before coffee. I don't like trying to think of something new and exciting to send. I don't like not being able to default to peanut butter and jelly. Not that I want to actually kill the allergic children at school with my pb&j, it's just that I'm lazy. I don't like signing a jillion papers and sorting through the 20 fliers and handouts. And I'm not even a kid.

But, yesterday the house was quiet. Really, really quiet. I could hear the refrigerator kick on and off and the ice maker deposit the ice into the bucket. I lounged. I ran errands in a timely, efficient fashion without being interrupted, begged to stop, harrassed for lunch and/or snacks, or having to referree.

I got a latte and ran errands in civilized clothes. I browsed at the shoe store, since I was out, and though I found nothing, I didn't have to hear, "BUT YOU PROMISED WE ONLY HAD TO MAKE ONE STOP AND THIS ISN'T IT!" Which was a relief.

I washed laundry and put it away. I picked up Legos without having a new trail laid out behind me. I went for a walk. I listened to music I like in the car. And when there was no music that I liked, I sat in silence. Life is very different without the kids.

Not once did I get begged for a (unhealthy) snack, did I have to break up a fight, did I have to play Lego or Wii, or in any way intervene in the childhoold plague of boredom. It was a big contrast to the whining and bickering of Sunday.

I ran into a friend at the grocery who said I looked "liberated" without my kids. I felt liberated, too. Like I could enter into a conversation without my children turning into clinging interrupters. I felt adult, and decently dressed and ready to be out "in the world," rather than rush-showered, unmade-up and frantic to finish everything before the kids became unruly. Everything was rather zen and relaxed, and kind of the way I expected it to be on the first day of back to school.

And then some woman had to wreck it. She overheard my friend and me talking about the return of school and what a relief it is to have a break, however short, from our kids and to move through the day as adults. But, there was this woman. Late 40s, maybe, clucking her tongue and reminding us how fast everything passes by. How she's taking her third child off to college. And how her heart is breaking. And how just yesterday, her college student was a toddler.

I GET IT. But, nostalgia, people, is for people who have the luxury of looking back. Those of us with elementary-aged kids, are still in the midst of 'the shit.' We have no light at the end of our tunnels, and feel as though we will be running errands, chauffering to activities and participating as PTA parents forever and ever without end. I know, your college student/adult child grew up so fast, you just blinked and it was over. This is the process of parenting. I WILL, surely, feel the same way when I take my baby off to college, but for now, parents of adult children: STOP TELLING ME TO ENJOY THIS.

Did you enjoy this? Running around to lessons, activities, whatever after school birthday/event/thing was going on? Did you enjoy buying whatever obscure school supply the teachers have sent you scavenging for? Did you enjoy kids growing out of shoes, and complaining about the seams in the socks, or whining about dinner, or complaining about bedtime, or "forgetting" to wash their hair in the tub, or flooding the bathroom, or hating their uniforms, or, or or or? No, this is the grind. This is the elbow grease of parenting that will, someday, gods willing, lead to the joy of accomplishment: having a successful child who wants to continue a higher education and, simultaneously, still loves me enough to want me to drop him off at said college.

There are moments--we all have moments--of pure happiness. When a child is so sweet, so likeable, so smart, so kind, that we never want him to change. But those moments are scattered among the realities of life, and the challenge of being a good parent--oh, fine, of being a mediocre parent--is to remember those moments when your child has left Legos in the tub, or underfoot, or has left food crumbs for the cockroaches, or has failed to let the dog out before the dog's bladder gave out, or or or. Mediocre is my realistic goal. It's back to school, and I'm shootin' for average.

Cartoon Overload/Overlord

As usual, summer has lasted about 10 days too long-in some ways, anyway. The kids are fighting, being sassy, complaining about boredom. In the other, much more real way, summer never lasts long enough--starting Monday, I have to go through that stomach turning process of packing lunch every day. Something about seeing deli meat before 6:30 in the morning is really nauseating. We'll be navigating bedtimes and baths and uniforms and uncomfy socks and homework and all the crap that comes along with school. It's bittersweet, for sure.

One thing that I DO know for sure is that S has watched waaaaaaaaaaay too many cartoons this summer. Phineas and Ferb, my personal favorites have been on a summer marathon. I think S has seen every episode--not just of the marathon, but of the entire series. He's also taken to one of those stupid Power Ranger shows, and the old standby, Scooby Doo. S will watch TV for hours at a time if we let him. E, on the other hand, gets bored, reads a book and then comes back to it. S, mesmerized, lays on the couch, shoving dry Apple Jacks into his mouth like a zombie.


Of course, kids also pick up every catchphrase from everything they every watch. So, this summer, we've had our share of "smurf" replacing normal verbs. We've also had the crazy Dufenschmirtz voice and we've named our household devices like that evil doctor: the toaster is now "The toastenator." It's pretty amusing.


But, I think the kicker, the single moment when I knew for SURE that S had too much TV was this morning. He was sitting in this GIANT dump truck that he's had for years. The truck's enormity and his relative smallness combine to make it his favorite mode of transport downstairs. He's like an old person in a scooter thing: he wheels from room to room with a gentle push to the floor. Freak. ANYWAY. From the bed of his dumptruck, he's complaining to me that the housekeeper threw away the cheat codes for the video games. (While I understand these words individually, I have know idea what they mean in this order). He's fibbing and "convincing" me that the paper was safely kept on the table (rather than the floor, where I know it was) or maybe, he concedes on the couch. I suggest that if the paper were kept in the cubby with the games, perhaps it would still be there.


"It hardly seems fair, young man, to blame the housekeeper for throwing out paper from the floor. I think you need to accept this as a lesson in keeping track of your own belongings."


S: (rocking back and forth in his dumptruck, quiet for a moment. Then, in evil genius voice) I'll get you next time. (Exits room, in dumptruck)


Touche.

End of sentence

Gentlemen, you're going to want to look away, this is going to get graphically girlie in a hurry. (Wait, do men read this?!) Girls, this is a post for you and me. I hate my period. Hate it. Granted, I have mine right now, so my normal outrage at this physiological process is escalated by hormone-fueled fury, but nonetheless: I HATE IT.

First, let me just repeat some old news for you. 10,000 years ago, when Neanderthals and Homo Sapiens were roaming around the Earth looking for their next Woolly Mammoth dinner, and cave women had their periods, what did they do about it? About the same thing that we are doing now. We, literally, use a product that has the French name for rag. Using a French name escalates a lot of things, foie gras is way better than liver, menage a trois is classier than threesome, but a rag by any other name is still a rag. Of course, now we poison our rags with bleach and acetone and use all sorts of synthetic materials, but it's still the same old cork and string.

We have very advanced pharmaceutical treatments for all kinds of "ills"--from male pattern baldness to erectile dysfunction, which apparently have the intended goal of enhancing sexual experience. My sexual experience might be enhanced if, through some modern miracle, I didn't have to hate my reproductive system every 27.5 days. I would even be okay with a bald, impotent guy if I didn't have to 'visit with my cousin' every month.

I begrudge every purchase of feminine hygiene products. I especially begrudge the fact that said products are usually in the same aisle as 1. diapers 2. condoms 3. pregnancy tests. Here's why this bothers me--diapers and feminine products? Is it because babies and women have waste that can't be controlled by regular underwear? But the old people underwear is someplace else entirely. Is it because all women have babies? Is it a guilt trip for fertile women who don't have babies? What's that about? I suspect something deeply subversive. 2. Condoms? Who wants to think about condoms when they are stocking up the period pantry? 3. Pregnancy tests? For those women who weren't buying tampons, but were too dumb to buy condoms? Is this the one-stop sex aisle? Then why would I want to trot my BABY through this aisle to buy diapers?! None of this makes sense.

I resent how much hygiene products cost. And that I have to buy the industrial size ones. I swear the ultra-super-mega products were used to soak up the BP spill. And those are still ineffective for my needs. There are all these earth-friendly, body-friendly alternatives. Don't think that this offsets my first complaint about there being no advances in this area of medicine. These are not advances, but rather primitive and (in my opinion) fouler methods to deal with the problem.

So, now I've spent my money on my absorb-an-ocean products, and then I'm subject to the irrational, unavoidable, intense hormonal rage that accompanies the physical bliss of cramping, backaches and some sort of weird, vague nausea. My family can tell you that I'm a werewolf. Synced with the phases of the moon, I monthly transform into a vile, uncontrollable beast. There's snarling and growling, and it's not a pretty sight.

Now, I'm mean and spending money on products and then the piece de resistance (another thing that sounds better in French): the 5 pound bloat. All my favorite clothes are tight and unflattering. My boobs hurt and are pinched in my bra. Jeans give way to sweats. Tees give way to M's tees. And, the aforementioned mood issues really make me able to cope with the body transformation very well.

In the end, I wind up feeling like the mean, evil brother of the Kool-Aid guy. All stomping around, and fat, and breaking walls and yelling at kids. And, in another 29 days, I get to do it all again. I CAN'T WAIT!

I blame you, Al Gore

I know the entire country is broiling under a post-apocalyptic nuclear sun. We are all hot. I get it. I'm sure in 6 months, half of us who have never seen snow before will be buried under feet of it, and those poor folks whose livelihoods depend on the white stuff will be stuck without.
I am not saying I am the only soul miserable in this heat wave. In fact, I have it better than most, and I know it. I don't have to labor outside. I don't have to fix air conditioners in attics, and I can sit inside and blog in the comfort of 76 degrees. If you're wondering why I don't set the thermostat to the more traditional room temperature of 72, I'll tell you, but it's gross. In this humidity, if I turn the air that far down, the water condenses on all the registers, drips and/or forms mildew. True. Gross.
Alabama, nationally beloved as the butt of every redneck joke ever invented, offers singularly awful weather. I posted this on a friend's Facebook page today, in fact. May through October are designated Hell. During these months, the air conditioning registers drip from the humidity extracted from the air. The outside feels like soup, I sweat profusely, embarrassingly, everywhere I go. I step out of my car, and the lovely diagonal line of my seat belt is outlined in perspiration. These months are occasionally interrupted with a hellacious unleashing of natural fury known as hurricanes. In my tenure in Alabama, we've been blissfully exempt from these tragedies, but New Orleans is only 100 miles down the road. I've seen it, don't need to experience it. We fend off mosquitoes that bring increasingly alarming diseases from equatorial regions. We hole up in our houses, occasionally dipping into the pool, or seeking refuge in the shade of an antique oak tree.
I've found that we usually don't have a spring or autumn in these parts. The trees generally don't turn beautiful shades of crimson and yellow. We don't have that brisk, cool air that heralds football and stews and fires in the fireplace--all the wonders of autumn in the northeastern parts of the nation. We usually go from hot as blazes to one November morning when the cars and roofs of our neighbors are glistening in frost and I haven't bought the boys long uniform pants.
Those chilly days lead to sub-freezing nights when I send M out to swaddle the pool equipment like a baby to avoid freezing. We are issued alerts on TV and radio to bring in all our pets, strays and elderly folks who didn't happen to die during the hellish summer. We crank up the heat, rummage through the backs of our closets to find the 3 sweaters that we still own. I dig through piles of athletic socks to find a pair, hopefully, that isn't white and won't show under black pants. I put headbands over cold ears, even if I am thankful that I can exercise outside without perishing.
These are my Alabama options. Blistering and burning or chattering and freezing. We have no brisk apple-picking season, no tulip-sprouting spring. We sit in the summer heat, watching the kudzu grow, waiting for that brief moment when the evening sun is setting and no longer burning us and before the mosquitoes come out. That moment, I run outside and drink my cocktail until the bugs drive me back in. Come winter, we will be running from car to shop to car to home as though the winter will kiss us with frostbite instantly.
Strangely enough, Alabama seems unprepared for both of these climate extremes. Frost kills all of the citrus crops, the palm trees, damages pools and cracks and freezes poorly insulated pipes. Summer heat and storms tear down above-ground power lines, threatens livestock, and kill the elderly. You'd think that EVEN Alabama could figure out how to cope with one of these extremes. Really. I'd take mastery over even one. Please.