The weatherman said (with a smile), “Oh, about 75 and sunny.” Then I slapped him.

His nose bled for an hour, discoloring his chin. He smeared it so haphazardly with toilet paper that it even tainted his cheeks. He went on the air discussing picnics and clouds, blushing as though weather were embarrassing.

If you must know: I didn’t mean to bleed the oaf; I meant to bleet him. As in, cause him to cry out and admit to his folly. Weathermen call on horoscopes for the forecast, I’m convinced. And the science they purport to muster in defense can be found on the side of a Cracker Jack Box.

No, no, I’d rather stare right up at the grisly nimbuses and tell them what’s what. “No rain, today! Not you! Get off it!” And then, off they would go, surprised anyone bothered to address them at all. Is it any wonder when all they want is a bit of attention? Have you considered it? Perhaps all of this huffing and puffing from above is Mother Nature begging for a bit of one-on-one quality time. Humans and dear Mother, having at with a bit of tea. It’s really not too much to ask.

Then again, I recall the highly logical Romans unearthing the Gauls in Asterisk and Obelisk. You remember the one, don’t you? And when the Brits stopped for their bit of tea—three in the afternoon, every day—the Romans would have to stop, too, until the Brits were quite ready to engage in battle again. Maybe the call for intermission once stymied dear Mother, but now it’s simply tossed to the side like a wet rag. On she goes, tea time or not, until she gets what she wants. I’m not quite sure how to give her what she needs, to be quite honest. But I still stop, from time to time, demanding that inclement weather pass us by.

It works on Tuesdays. All other days of the week, bets are off.

Truth be told, I suspect that weathermen have it all backwards. Pretend to know her, and you insult her. The surer we are—StormTracker 2000 or not—the fiercer her punch will be. A machine created by us and interpreted by us is an offense to the Grand Dame who would rather inform us herself what to expect. Oh yes, I’ve taken the macho stance, and it’s worked once or twice (storm clouds shrinking at my behest), but not as often anymore. I have lost some masculinity.

So instead I convene days with the sun, or the clouds, or the blue of the sky. I say, without much pomp, “Yes, I’ll take whatever you give. But as I do, consider the fact that I biked to work today. It would be lovely not to ride in the rain.”

And do you know what? Most days, she listens. Or at least, is not too offended. On Tuesdays.