Either way, here in Pittsburgh it has been raining almost every day since Spring twirled onto the seasonal stage, looked around, and said, "Daffodils, this is your wake up call. Time to haul petal."
So, they grumblingly rolled out of bed. And stepped into the shower. But the shower just hasn't ended yet. Two-and-a-half months, they've been in there, singing "What's the Story Morning Glory" and there's no sign of it stopping-- even with Oasis suing for lack of public performance permissions.
I mean, I totally understand the old "April Showers Bring May Flowers" thing. But what we've been experiencing this year is not normal. If it were, there would be more sayings we'd trot out to make excuses for why we have to ScotchGuard our socks.
Phrases like: "The rains of March, they quench the larch."
"Monsoons in June, mean blooms kaboom."
Or "February showers bring March flooding of the Mon Wharf parking lot due to too-rapid snow melting, causing commuter tensions in an already challenging downtown parking situation."
You know, catchy stuff like that.
But it's not just the rain. It's the darkness. The kind of perpetual darkness that no amount of coffee will cut through. There is not enough coffee in the world when 10 in the morning every day looks like the lighting set-up for Blade Runner.
Now, me, I am one of those unnaturally pale people that really shouldn't be out in any kind of direct sunlight or, I don't know, stand next to someone like Snooki lest my skin peel off from the radiation. I probably luminesce on my own. But that doesn't mean I don't want to see that warm, golden stuff shining down on us at least once before the fall school supplies are out in Target.
(Actually, that will probably be tomorrow; nevermind.)
So, I'm starting to wonder what's next, friends? The Three Rivers boiling with blood? A plague of locusts sweeping the city? (Stinkbugs have already beat them to that.) High winds and a record number of tornadoes wiping out whole--
Oh... okay. Fine: points to you, Mom Nature. You've proven you can still mix it up with the best of 'em.
I guess the only thing we can do is adapt. Like those see-through, sightless crustaceans that live in caves.
Finally, I'll have a chance at not blinding everyone come summer shorts season. So... hey, silver lining!