HAPPY MEMORIAL DAY, FRIENDS!
I welcome the holiday in it's entirety—lilacs on headstones, flags on porches, potato salad picnic lunches where we reunite with second and third generations, making up word games in our head to help us remember..."StEEve is married to AnEEta..." Seems to do the trick, until you realize that they're aging right along with you, faces and hairlines morphing and melding, and then it's really all just a crap shoot...
Anyway, apparently the heavens are suffering some sort of postpartum depression and can't seem to shake themselves out of it. I don't really know how to help, but clearly slapping the clouds over and over and over again while screaming, "GET A HOLD OF YOURSELF, YOU BIG FAT BAWL-TIT!" hasn't done the job. She continues to sob and wallow, slurching around in stained sweats permeated with the heavy scent of pancake syrup and too much Downey. She sits amidst a dozen loads of unfolded laundry, oblivious to her rising waters midsection threatening homes and property throughout the state of Utah.
She didn't used to be like that. Heavens used to keep herself up. She wore sky blue eyeshadow...painted her lips in sunset hues...her perfectly proportioned figure was kept locked and loaded within four seasons and river banks. Gracefully, she'd sop up her springtime tears with a linen handkerchief made of temperate breezes and moderate sunshine. But now...well, I think we can all see she's let herself go, and not even an afternoon of Oprah and ice cream can bring her out of it.
Hopefully she'll pull herself together before it's too late and the floods and mudslides are imminent. Until then, is there a Dr. in the house who can prescribe heavens some sort of upper, or downer, or whatevertheheller she needs to expedite the process?
I'll wait while you call it in. ;)