You’d think I was the spawn of these two (Helios and Isis (bet her parents didn’t know what an unfortunate name that would be one day), the God and Goddess of the Sun.

 

If I didn’t know who my parents were (and wish my dad weren’t my dad), I would think I was the offspring of some Greek weather God who demanded Sun and temperate breezes and blue skies 365 days a year. I have come to see, and only more so as I get older, that I am like a freaking weathervane–my migraines can predict when a barometric shift will happen and my mood and energy level indicate when it’s cold, rainy or snowy. Who needs the weather channel?

It’s absurd to live in New England (where I’ve lived my whole life, mind you) and only like the spring (when it’s not rainy) and summer (when it’s not humid). As Mark Twain so brilliantly said, “If you don’t like the weather in New England, wait a minute.” Truth, baby.  It can be rainy, snowy and 72 all in one week (swear to God, I’ve lived it).  The weather is as bad as Bill O’Reilly getting all that money for assaulting women.

Yesterday was pouring water and gray as a slate roof for the second day in a row and I seriously wanted to stay in bed and just do my work from there (which, full disclosure, I did for part of the day). Now I want to point out that nothing is wrong over here, I am in a perfectly happy mood, and things are good (well, you know, except for Trump), but the weather does this to me.  I am like a victim of the forecast. (By the way, I know the importance of my even talking about my weather moods is a first world problem.)

But wah, wah, wah, my phone says it’s rain until Sunday. By then, I think even the flowers are going to be like gratitude shmatitude, we were happy to have you, but enough is a fucking ‘nough.  If you need me, I’ll be under the covers, digging the mold out from under my nails.