A re-worked post from July of last year. The weather was ridiculously hot, the kitties were lying in fuzzy little pools of overheated aminal, and I shared a bed. Enjoy.
It’s been a problem for me for years, but I’ve discovered a cure for my insomnia.
It’s Willie’s conversational skills.
He’s a lovely man, don’t misunderstand, but if he doesn’t stop talking about the weather soon, I’m going to stuff his ears with ricotta.
It’s in the fridge. We work with what’s on hand.
Weather, as many of you know, is a staple of conversation through the middle part of the U.S. Minnesota in particular provides a number of interesting weather treats to ponder, including a yearly temperature variance of well over 120 degrees; whirling, sucking wind vortexes; and blinding snowstorms that once drove hearty ancestors to affix rope from the house to the out-buildings and stuff unwary travelers into the slaughtered bellies of oxen for warmth.
And so, while grateful that Willie has a “weather eye” out at all times, what it does to everyday conversations leaves one falling limply off the furniture, eyelids fluttering.
“I see here where the temperature, with the heat index, is going to be around 105 degrees tomorrow.”
“Is that right, Pa?”
He hates when I call him Pa.
“Say, you didn’t happen to catch the rainfall totals for last week, did you?”
“No, sorry. I was totally disinterested and opted to alphabetize the pantry instead.”
“Did you really?”
Things could be worse, a fact of which I know firsthand. I’ve had boyfriends who stole my eyeliner, for cryin’ out loud.
Then again, once they learned not to do that we then had two eyeliners in the house…
“Pearl, it’s gonna rain! Grab your umbrella!”
“Willie, there’s not a cloud in the sky.”
“Yeah, but I got a feeling about this one.”
Unfortunately, Willie’s weather feelings are a poor bet. Outside of “probably going to snow tomorrow”, said in the middle of January or “Gonna be windy tomorrow!” in the spring, he’s just making it up.
It’s a cure for insomnia, isn’t it, this incessant weather blather. A carefully interjected “You don’t say” or “That seems different than last season, doesn’t it?” is all he asks for and all I need to ensure ten minutes of conjecture regarding caterpillar stripes and their warnings on the dreadful winter to come.
Frankly, they’re all dreadful.
Still, he gets to talk about the weather with only the mildest of interjections and ribbing on my part, and I get to fall asleep to muted dreams of snowbound cabins and roaring fireplaces.
Another problem solved.