An open letter to M. Nature

Dear Mother Nature,

Hi. I see you. I see you, and I hear you, and, perhaps worst of all, I feel you. I get it. You're there, and you're pissed.

Now that I've acknowledged your pain, I'd like to make a small request.

Stop being a bitch.

Or at least aim your temper tantrums at the people who abuse you. Scream at the people who refuse to recycle, adding to the landfills that scar your skin. Take out your frustration on the folks who scoff at your global warming. Rage against the litterbugs and the strip miners and the executives at Halliburton. Skip the wellsite engineers and the field hands, though. My hubby used to be the former and he knew a lot of good men who are the latter and they're just trying to provide for their families.

Leave the rest of us alone.

I'm tired, MoNat. I'm tired of your bone chilling cold and your snow. I put up with your winter, only to have you pitching yet more fits for spring. Hail, really? I know what you're up to with that, by the way. Don't think I haven't noticed that the only times you hurl hail at me are when I am driving a new car. 14 years ago you hailed on my three month old Honda Accord hard enough to cause a shitload of damage that I had to get fixed. Then you left me alone until I got my Corvette. Just biding your time, perhaps? Once wasn't enough for you then, though, perhaps because the Corvette was considerably more expensive than the Accord. No, you've thrown your little frozen spitballs at my Corvette no less than four times. (Joke's on you, honey. That car isn't metal and so far it has rebuffed your attacks. So stop trying.) Now, after 14 years, I have a new daily driver car again. It's about six months old. What happened yesterday? Yeah. You tried again tonight but I was already home and my new car is in the garage. Didn't stop you from pummeling my new roof, though.

And the tornadoes? C'mon. I'm tired of rounding up my kid, two cats and a guinea pig to go sit in the basement bathroom. Especially at 5:30 a.m. or when my dinner casserole should be coming out of the oven. I need sleep, Mama Earth. My family needs rest. We're all still in various flu stages and we need to get better and you're not helping with your nightly lightning and your thunder and your damn wind that causes the sirens to scream unmercifully. Stop tweezing trees and tossing our shit around. You're really just making life miserable for everyone.

I want to especially thank you for the torrential rain you've provided the last few days, especially since you pour that down during the exact times I must cross campus to get to meetings. You have soaked my socks, shoes, and pant legs countless times over the last two days. Yesterday was so bad I had to remove my socks and shoes and dry them out over the heater in my office. (I considered removing my pants but I work in an all-boys school, so that's not really an option. Well, not an option if I want to keep my job.)

So, Ms. Terra, it's time to get over whatever it is you're pissed about. Get up, put on your big girl panties, and stop being so damn crabby. Go get a manicure or a massage. Read a good book. See a therapist. Have drinks with your friends. Get Father Time to help out with the housework. For the love of all that's holy, do something, anything, to cheer yourself up so you stop being bitchy.

You're giving the rest of us, your sisters, a bad rep.

Ever yours,
Amy