They say college changes people. For once, “they” may be right. It changed my now-husband — especially his freshman-year meteorology class.
He’s never gotten over it. Since we live together, neither have I.
Maybe you wouldn’t think an introductory class in anything would make you an expert on the subject. You might, in fact, point this out to the guy who’s mouthing off on a regular basis. Are you sure you want to, though? You would be wasting your breath. I should know.
“JESUS CHRIST! YOU CALL YOURSELF A METEOROLOGIST? YOU’RE A BUFFOON, BUDDY!”
“What’s wrong?” This would usually come from me or, when they were young, one of our kids.
My husband continues his outrage, screaming at the TV.
“Look at the arrow that loser is drawing! You can tell he doesn’t know anything about weather. What a MORON — ”
“The arrow looks OK to me — ”
“If you knew anything at all about meteorology, you’d know that arrow is an insult to the audience. HANG IT UP, BUDDY! THE CIRCUS NEEDS A CLOWN LIKE YOU!”
Oh, yes, these outbursts have gone on for years — during monsoons and droughts, tornadoes and wildfires. Mostly, my husband gets upset about badly drawn arrows. But he also takes to screaming about inaccuracies past and present.
“You promised us rain last week! We didn’t get a damned drop!”
I would say he’s a good judge of meteorological character, but he’s not. One of the only TV weathermen he approved of (“You can tell from that guy’s arrows that he knows what he’s talking about”) was later sent to the slammer for molesting children.
My husband was also noticeably silent about a female meteorologist we watched briefly in Dallas. She was, I should point out, so well-endowed that when she turned in the right direction, entire continents disappeared. Her arrows, too, must have been top-flight; if they weren’t, he never complained.
But all the others — the tall, the short, the lanky, the righteous, the self-deprecating, the smug — have been found wanting over the years and decades, usually at top volume.
Educate a woman and you educate a family — I’ve heard that, too. Educate a man with meteorology 101 and you’ve got a full-blast, three-ring circus coming to your house every night at six.
You don’t need a weatherman to know which way the wind blows, Dylan said; around our house, it blows for thee.
(Copyright 2014 by Ruth Pennebaker)
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