The Weather Girl

I’m the weather girl. Not like Ginger Zee on Good Morning America, all pretty and slim and with perfect makeup and hair. I don’t stand in front of a green screen with lightning bolts or rain drops to show me what the day is going to bring.

I washed my hair this morning, and it curled up like a Kewpie Doll. That tells me it’s going to be more humid than usual. On the frequent days in Las Vegas with one-digit humidity (that’s right—one digit) I tend to resemble Andy Warhol, with straight straw-like strands sticking out uncontrollably. Hats! I wear lots of hats.

I know when it’s going to rain by my left knee. I can tell you how much rain will arrive by both the ache and the size of the joint. The old boiled egg means scattered showers. When it begins to resemble a cantaloupe, I know the TV will soon be airing warnings for flash floods.

If the barometric pressure drops, the missing tooth in the right back of my jaw begins aching. I know it shouldn’t. It isn’t there anymore. Someday, I’m going to get the implant. I used a good portion of the royalties from my grandmother’s life story to get a few new crowns and fillings, and I was just plain weary of sitting in the dentist’s chair. Except for the missing molar, everything in my mouth is up-to-date. My cleaning is scheduled for next month, so maybe then.
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The worst thing is in December, January, and February when we sometimes get temperatures in the 20s. My left hip starts its annual rebellion. My brain sends it a message to take a step, and it wires back, “eventually.” I get out of a chair after sitting for more than a half-hour, and I’m walking like a chimpanzee. When I go to a movie, after it’s over, I wait until almost everyone else has left so I don’t get stomped over in the exit line.

The doctor gave me a pill called Meloxicab that helps—but not right away. It has to accumulate two or three days before it kicks in. Given that he also told me it would be bad for my heart, I try to go without it unless my desire to move from one place to another is a pressing need.

On the Channel 13 weather report here in Las Vegas, Brian Scofield sometimes gives the pollen count. I don’t need him to tell me the number. All I have to do is count the number of times I sneeze when I go out to get the morning paper.

Remember Carmen Miranda, the 1940s version of Charo, the hoochie-coochie girl? I don’t think she danced like that because she was all that crazy about bananas. I think she had some arthritis in her hips and that was simply the only way she could walk.