Chapter Twenty Eight; Parkas and PMS

"Why is God torturing us?!?!?"

I am sure my daughter’s proclamation could be heard by our entire neighborhood. And no, she did not shriek this question in reaction to a crisis such as our house burning down or dog dying.

It was worse.

Much. Much worse.

It was blizzarding outside. And it is May!

I join in her tantrum and drop to my knees beside her, “WHY? !?! Why God?!?! WHY? Just tell us WHY?!??”

(No clue where this kid gets her melodramatic nature from. It is baffling.)

According to Al Gore global warming is real. According to the view outside my backyard window Al Gore needs to cut back on the crack cocaine.

Up here in North Country our unofficial state motto is, "If you don't like the weather, wait an hour. It will change." Unfortunately that is no exaggeration. I actually once went from sunburned to frostbitten in a span of twenty minutes.

True story.

Interestingly enough, this sporadic and tumultuous aspect of life on earth has been assigned a female identify.

The one, the only, the completely unpredictable: Mother Nature.

I mean really, if nature is a woman she is obviously suffering from a torrential case of PMS bordering on schizophrenia. Think about it. She can’t make up her mind in regard to which direction the wind should blow, she unpredictably freaks out and goes all hurricane/tornado/monsoon for no good reason, yet she is so beautiful you just can’t help but fall in love with her over and over.

Yep. Nature is a woman, no doubt about it.

But here’s the billion dollar question: If there is a Mother Nature, does this or does this not imply the one time existence of a Father Nature?

You’d think it would have at least been noted CNN Headline news if he had died? Should I assume a divorce? I’ve never heard him mentioned. Perhaps there was an unspeakable scandal, too juicy for even the tabloids? If that’s the case you can bet Leo DeCaprio’s fleet of environmentally friendly hybrid vehicles that good old Father Nature is now in full mid-life crisis mode: sporting a bad comb over, driving a Ferrari and living in a condo in Tahiti with his third, make that fourth, wife.

Mother Nature is probably just too classy of a chick to gossip. Bless her heart.

Well, if they did once share this role let me guess why their relationship didn’t last: he never remembered to pick up the mess he made in the fall by sending strong winds to clear the leaves, plus I am sure he consistently forgot to wake the sun up on time (without an apology) and probably was never able to multi-task the massive coordination that each summer’s blooming schedule required even though detailed and bullet pointed instructions were taped in clear view on the refrigerator and had been for seven centuries. (But a hundred bucks says he could recite baseballs stats dating back to 1933.)

Alright, alright. I’ll let you have your little episode, Mother Nature. You’ve obviously been through a lot and you are a strong woman.

And truly, it is worth it to me personally to know such an organized, sassy and independent girl is running this nature show even if you do get a little dramatic on occasion.

But when you get a chance, girlfriend, could you cease with the unseasonable snowy situation here and just take some Midol already?

I would really rather not have to wear a parka over my bikini this 4th of July.