There's a Fine Line Between Anal and Retentive

The show-of-hands was kind of fun the last time, so let's do it again. How many of you have a love/hate relationship with your favorite local TV weather person? Okay, more than I expected. Well, you shouldn't feel guilty about it. And you won't, after this.

This morning it occurred to me I could be the best local weather forecaster ever, but unfortunately I'd need the entire news time slot to share it. It's a curse, the need to share the full story in all its guts and glory. It's my Dad's DNA, in me. I know it. My Dad was a great talker, with one of those silvery voices you wouldn't mind listening to all day long. And we did.

Daughter: Happy Retirement Day One, Dad. How was it?

Dad: Aw, thanks honey. It was busy...first your Mother and I had breakfast together. You know, that great breakfast casserole she makes when we have company. Except this time she used Canadian bacon instead of sausage. I think she usually uses Bob Evans sausage but maybe she didn't have the coupon for that. But anyway, it was SO good. So good. I had to have two plates because I haven't had a breakfast like that on a weekday for so long. Wow, I better take a good long walk tomorrow. Maybe I'll just drive down to the Trail since it's nice and flat. This neighborhood is SO hilly, you know. Which is probably what I need but I'm not so sure about my knees anymore. Anyway, after breakfast I.......

Daughter, 37 minutes later: Dad, I'm glad lunch was so good, too. I hate to stop but I have an early day tomorrow. Can I call you then? Love you.

Dad: Wha? Oh, yes! Of course. I forgot you're my corporate girl. Which reminds me......

So what's this got to do with the weather?

This morning when I woke up I expected to hear horrific hail, and to see that my neighbors' minivan had landed in my driveway. And I'd planned all sorts of indoor projects because MY LOCAL WEATHERMAN SAID IT WOULD BE CLOUDY AND STORMY, ALL DAY. The perfect day, for indoor things. So instead, I woke to the kind of partly sunny skies and brittle breeze that make me antsy, and more likely to take a roadtrip, or transplant large shrubbery....anything outdoors. Which is exactly what I did. I'm sure it was cloudy and stormy all day someplace in southwestern Pennsylvania. It just wasn't anywhere near me.

That's when I imagined that this Dad curse, could make me the most reliable and helpful weather girl anyone has ever seen. Because I could tell folks......

"North-northeastern quadrant 11, you'll start seeing sprinkles at 6:48 Monday morning. That's a little atypical for you all but I expect that time advance due to all the hot air - originating in the southwestern quadrants 63-74 where the Tea Party rally is tonight - pushing quickly your way. But, 11, showers will also end before the elementary school kids start their walk to school at 8:13am, so leave the slickers at home."

or,

"Now, looking at the 5-day forecast for Wyngate Drive addresses 128-143, the best times to plant those tomatoes will be Tuesday between 3:28 and 6:59 pm, and anytime Friday afternoon. Remember, tomato plants love warm soil and mildly breezy conditions, which you'll have in spades during those times. Wyngate 101-127, the breezes just won't be there for you then due to the topographical features of that darn hill, so don't try to plant just because the others are. Happy planting Carol!"

It's the Curse. Like Father, like Daughter.

It's been worse since going back to school. Last fall I was in anatomy-physiology/biochemistry course pre-work, which just might be the worst thing for someone like me. The terminology for body parts and processes and other fun things, are lengthy. It's detailed and exacting and takes forever to write, and even longer to speak it. And, we were allowed - encouraged - to blah-blah-blah all of it.

So the Dad curse is a kind of glossopharyngealorrhea.....just think, "oral discharge". Which means if I actually were a weather person, we might just have a hate/love relationship.

But I'm just a girl, with a twist. And a curse. So tolerant love/love mail only, please.

Love you, Dad.