The Weather Girl Blues

“I’m your weather girl. Ah.Huh. I’ve got news for you. ‘Cause tonight round about half past 10 – for the first time in history. It’s gonna start raining men.”

 The song has promised me that Whaangaarrain is going to start delivering more than precipitation and I’m counting on it.

I’ve listened to Aretha belting out ‘RESPECT’. I’ve sung the words loudly to every rousing song ever sung by every drag queen ever born including “I will survive” and “It’s raining Men,’ in order to cheer myself up and I’m done. If it doesn’t stop raining soon I will have to break out the Janis Joplin LPs.

Once expelled from a flat for over indulgence in Janice, the flatmates made me choose; her or them. Two of them were dairy farmer’s boys and watched Neighbours so were hardly the arbiters of good taste. I chose her.

The small person learnt the words to ‘Oh Lord won’t you buy me a Mercedez Benz’ when she was four. It is true that I told her that we’d have to give her away to another family if she wasn’t up to the task.

It is also true that the Latin went mental when she told on me.

In the end I told him it was a church song and of deep political and social import and also part of my cultural heritage. He calmed down – he’s big on inter-cultural respect.

I also told him when we came to live here that Whangarei was beside the sea and that you could grow tropical fruit – he was thinking Rio and what he got was Raumanga. Not that he’s ever complained. But seriously this incessant rain must be driving more than a few of us more insane than usual.

I decide to get all Pollyanna with it and get with the Sunday rainy day groove. I go for all those crafty things the small person gets for Christmases that I never seem to have the time to sit and do with her. Small pieces of glitteriness flutter everywhere. Paint leaks through the newspaper. Then the cat walks through it. I remember that I got expelled from Brownies on the craft day. The look of horror on my Mum’s face when I had to tell her I’d been kicked out which was why I was home early. It was a rainy day. Now I get it.

Then I have the brilliant idea of ‘More Me Time.’ This is very big in the women’s mags that I read in A and E when the small person has either broken another arm or has an asthma attack due to the incessant rain.

I start on Eric Fromm’s ‘The Sane Society’ and am on page three when a bugled rendition of the theme song to Sponge Bob is channelled into my frontal lobe via a rolled up poster. I go nuclear. There is shouting which would make the Hulk look like a patsy. Variations on the theme of roaring and apologising for bad behaviour on both sides. My family gangs up and repeats a theatre piece of me losing it. It’s funny the first time. 

Baking! Only; everything chosen needs ingredients which necessitates forging into the tempest. Bread. Flour – water. How hard can it be? Samoan sea slug loaves accompany zombie brain loaves. Meanwhile the dog kennel floats out to sea.

I look to the modern oracle of Google for salvation. ‘Weather men’ gets nothing but some rock band.

‘Weather girls’ however gives pages of porno lite. It’s then that I notice a clip entitled ‘Why God sends rain to Latin America and not to the Middle East.’ There are the usual Latin lovelies falling out of a variety of outfits made from the off-cuts of g-strings. Nobody is noticing the approaching low. Rain is irrelevant. They are followed by women in full burkas pointing to maps. It seems to be working. It’s all desert there.

I’m writing to TVNZ and suggesting the new dress code for the weather women before I have to consider living with these guys on an ark.

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