Spring weather is springing
Hooray! Official springtime begins next week — March 19 — and maybe, at last, it’ll even rain in west Texas, hopefully dampening down what has now become the largest wildfire in American history. Perhaps, too, the Amazon basin’s third 100-year drought in a row will also end despite nary a drop having fallen upon a single jungle leaf so far this year.
And maybe enough precipitation shall return to the Panama Canal to render it fully functional again, as well, or enough that the oceans’ Thermal Conveyor isn’t really showing every sign of imminent catastrophic collapse due to too much fresh water cascading from Greenland’s hypersonic meltdown.
And perhaps even our weather here in Dallas — which has now been mimicking June ever since February — is, you know, only a fluke? Uh huh, and I’ve got a most lovely stretch of pristine coastline for auction along the shores of downtown Bangladesh … bidding starts at a dollar.
Lockdown occurred during this very week, exactly four years ago. Remember those contagiously fun, crazy spring days, kidz? Seems more like 4 million years ago, does it not?
If you ask me, the Pandemic of 2020 was when we — formerly a morally-responsible, sympathetically-conscientious, get ’er done civilization — finally just dropped the ball altogether, and with a nihilistic sigh, nodded, “Doom, you’ve won: Have at us.”
Nowhere back in 2019, as I recall, were half-empty store shelves just the given norm. Now even basic grooming supplies are now held ransom, under constant lock and key. Remember back when you could toss razor blades, eye drops, teeth whitener and even lube straight into the basket on your arm without necessarily triggering a cacophony of blue-swirling sirens?
Still, who in Dallas doesn’t count his blessings for living where we do? After all, we’re not among those poor unfortunates trapped in, say, Ukraine, Gaza, Haiti or the Texas Panhandle. We’re not having to traverse the dreaded Darien Gap or literally keep our heads above water in an overcrowded, capsizing boat of fellow refugees praying for asylum from no country who’ll take us.
No, here in the high spring of our American heartland’s great plains, we’re the lucky ones. Let’s just get all days of Lent and mercenaries right to it, shall we?
Dear Howard: Easter’s just around the corner, and my mother’s commanding me to drive all the way down to Corpus Christie to attend sunrise service with her — same as our family has always done. It’ll be Mom’s first Easter without Dad there, too. But here’s where things get sticky: I’m an atheist, which of course I’ve never told Mom. My partner’s religious dogma isn’t too far behind mine.
Muddying things further, Mom doesn’t acknowledge the love of my life as anyone more significant than a Craigslist roommate; we’ve been living together for more than two years, and she still can’t recall his name. Walt and I are engaged to be married the day before Easter.
My mother never joined the computer age, so I resorted to sending her a snail-mail invitation to my wedding, which she claims never to have received.
“But, it’s Easter,” she scoffed. “Now, son, unless you’ve gained too much weight since leaving home, don’t worry about what Easter ties to wear, or even which suit to bring. Thankfully, you and your father were always the same size. In fact, bring a couple extra suitcases along with you. It’ll save me a trip to the Goodwill.”
Howard, help? — The Lad in Easter Plaid
Dear Who’s Your Laddie: Lemme guess: Southern Baptist? Nothing will turn off a Heaven-bound soul to religion faster than having to grow up Southern Baptist. I feel for you, man.
OK, so here’s what you do: Call up your mother, and remind her that the internet — just like faith — possesses the power to connect everyone to what they need, and that your present needs require you to get on with your newfound life here in Dallas.
Remind her again that you’d love her to attend your wedding to Walt; nevertheless, if she’d rather prefer never being uncomfortably associated with the hellbound, then she’s perfectly welcome to continue watching The Price is Right in living color, while staring at her living room’s walls shrinking ever further inward.
The inherent problem with these sorts of “Let Go, Let God,” bumper-sticker philosophies is that they so neatly absolve them of all responsibility for the subsequent consequences of doing absolutely nothing toward accepting others as they are. Regardless, the sun will always rise anew tomorrow, with or without the blessings of sweet baby Jesus.
Dear Howard: I just asked my boyfriend to move in with me, even though my older sister — she’s my only living relative — has despised Jay from the very start. I invited her to dinner at a restaurant to introduce them, but when the bill came, I guess I must have left my wallet at home, which I never do. “No worries,” my sister said, reaching for her handbag. Jay just rolled his eyes at me, chuckling, “You’re so forgetful.” He turned to Lauren. “It’s a mystery to me how he even makes it through the day.” Later, Sis pulled me aside and said, “Don’t dare even think of considering that one long-term. A good gaslighting’s all you’ll ever get from him.”
Gaslighting? Man, what does that even mean? — Sparky
Dear Where’s-The-Light: Gaslighting is about the most destructive form of emotional abuse; it comes cloaked in sympathy toward the victim’s slow descent into questioning their own perception of reality — manipulative mind-fucking at its most malignant. The sole purpose is to ensure someone else begins to doubt their own beliefs.
If you suspect you’re being gaslighted, here are a few red-flag phrases to watch out for: “You’re too emotional. I think you’re blowing things way out of proportion here. You just need to calm down. You know I would never intentionally hurt you. Trust me. I’ve got you, babe.”
Then there’s, “Wherever did you get such an idea? I never agreed to that. You know, I’m not sure if your family has your best interest at heart.” For the successful gaslighter, repetition is key. Simply blame the victim relentlessly enough, and victory is yours!
Meanwhile, y’all don’t forget now, come April 8, it’s your once-in-a-lifetime chance of being directly in the path of totality, here in Dallas, at witnessing nothing less than a total eclipse of the sun! — Howard Lewis Russell
Howard’s now taking your April showers’ questions for next month, sweet readers—or golden showers—whatever sorts of precipitation floats your boats highest, at AskHoward@dallasvoice.com.
