It snowed in Colorado (again).
My mother used to obsessively glue herself to The Weather Channel every time a tornado watch appeared in the upper left-hand corner of our TV screen. She would usher us down to the basement and my father would usually wander out to the garage. he’d stand there, drink a beer, and peer up at the sky to see if anything was really going to happen. The meteorologists on The Weather Channel were known to the family as my mom’s weather buddies. I teased her about it back then.
Little did I know that this weather addiction was hereditary. It’s BAD. I cannot get enough of weather reports when storms blow through. At any given time, I’m tracking forecasts on at least three independent websites and two news stations. I do run out into the snow wearing old maternity pants, a dirty t-shirt, and my husband’s shoes to measure the snow with an actual tape measure. During my brief foray with Ambien, I used to black out and download countless weather apps while appearing awake.
I compulsively downloaded weather apps. How is that a thing?
I love the snow. I love when it’s cold. Admittedly, I also love things like flowers and trees and getting to wear flip flops, but mostly the cold. When I’m asked about where I’d go on a dream vacation? It involves Alaska.
Currently, I’m participating in a weight loss program (Oprah’s a fan — you’re familiar with it), and there’s this online feature that is essentially Facebook for folks on a diet. I mean, lifestyle change. Mostly diet. Now is the time of the year where people are taking pictures of themselves modeling spring dresses and asking strangers to choose which ones look best, or flaunting the first bikini they’ve purchased in 15 years. Don’t get me wrong — I’m all over celebrating successes, so ladies, go on with your bad selves. It’s just, well, my success is going to be tied more to snugger winter coats. Maybe ski pants. Stuff you would associate with the word “gear.”
Who knows, maybe when I’m down fifty pounds, I’ll be more anxious to try on stuff that one would wear in hotter temps. Come back to me around August. I COULD BE FIFTY POUNDS LESS BY AUGUST.
Earlier this week, I attended this business women’s group where people discussed their dreams and aspirations and celebrated being themselves. I told a total stranger about my weight loss goals and wound up crying. It was unexpected. Then again, people encouraged me to rest my hand upon my womb more than once during that meeting, too, and that also was a surprise. I’m making light (that was a totally unexpected pun, I swear) of the situation, so allow me this moment of sincerity: I think that because I’ve given a voice to this goal, it’s going to happen. Think good thoughts for me.
These good thoughts should include me going to the bathroom regularly. For the second time in a month, I found myself suffering from crippling constipation. There was a time, years ago, when I was weaning off a medication that rhymes with Shmeroquel, and that tapering period led me to the hospital, because it had been something ridiculous, like, ten days since I’d pooped. I’d tried everything. I wound up having to drink two gallons of stuff that I guess they typically use to prep someone for a colonoscopy. However, no colonoscopy happened after that particular horrifying adventure. That was then. Long story short: I pooped six times yesterday in a five-hour time period. While at work. Fortunately for me, I’d put some essential oil spray in the office restroom last week in hopes someone would lay off the Febreeze (or Buh-breeze, if you’re a Kimmy Schmidt fan). That stuff is AMAZING.
There’s the real product, Poopourri (brilliant name), but there are a bazillion recipes for knock-offs. I made one on my own and KILLED it. Some folks at work have been reluctant to try it out, so I keep displaying it prominently on the bathroom counter while placing the Febreeze in a corner, hoping to make it look sad and unappealing. I’m shaming the Febreeze.
Once upon a time, I would not have been the person to talk on a blog about this sort of thing. With age comes more I Don’t Give a Damn, I suppose.
Let’s end this on a sensitive and artistic note: