The only thing consistent about the weather in Michigan is its utter fickleness. Just a few days ago, my heart was rejoicing at the sight of the first blooming daffodils and the first robin to appear in my backyard. The days were sunny and, while still chilly, a heavy sweater sufficed for warmth. I was smugly thinking about moving the snow shovels from the back porch to the shed, and the winter coats from the hooks near the backdoor to the coat closet near the front door. After 26 years, you’d think I’d know better. I DO know better, but after a long, cold winter, the first signs of spring go to my head and chase out rational thought. Who can be rational when the robins are singing and the daffodils are blooming?

Of course, the same thing happened that happens every year. It’s an old story and one I’ve poured out on social media since I started blogging in 2005; more snow. It’s kind of weird this time, though; the days are still sunny and not bitterly cold, but when the sun goes down, the snow begins to fall. It’s like living in a parable and I enjoy neither the reality nor the symbolism. But, as my Maltese sister-in-law says with a shrug, what are you going to do?

• Remember fondly all of the warm places I’ve ever lived: Texas, Mississippi, Arkansas, Florida, California, Hawaii.
• Dream of all the warm places I’d like to visit: Malta, Australia, the Cote d’Azur, Greece.
• Plan a trip south to see my mom if I can ever shake whatever keeps laying me low, and if my daughter ever gets her new well dug (because I’m dog-sitting for her whenever it happens).
• Heave a deep sigh, put on my big girl pants and my parka and go shove the snow off my van so I can run some errands.

In honor of International Women's Day, here's a repost of one of my favorite posts about my mom. It was originally posted in 2011.

Whenever my mom has to face a new challenge in life, she responds with a defiant look - pinched mouth and squinty eyes that would make Clint Eastwood back down - and the battle cry, “I’m a tough old broad!” I’ve been thinking about her and that look and those words a lot lately.

Those of us who lack the means for cosmetic surgery may be better off giving in gracefully to the ravages of advancing age instead of wearing ourselves out fighting the inevitable, but it’s not in my nature to yield peacefully. Mom saw to that. “If somebody starts something with you, you finish it!” she’d tell me, notwithstanding the fact that I was a sickly, scrawny girl with legs so stick thin I could encircle my knees with the fingers on one hand. That’s pretty hard to believe if you know me now, but it’s true. I was the runt of the litter and if I hadn’t been good at making myself scarce whenever it appeared that somebody might be considering the possibility of starting something with me, I’d have been snapped in two like a dried up twig.

Somewhere along the road of life, between the twig-girl I was and the Rubenesque woman I’ve become, Mom’s fighting spirit finally began to take hold. I think it was the day I got my first gray hair and Brett plucked it out and taped it into his diary. No, it was earlier than that. Perhaps getting a glimmer of what was in store for me the day my four-year-old daughter ran into the house with a policeman hot on her trail is what stiffened my spine. Or even earlier than that when I learned how lying, cheating, backstabbing, gossiping, downright mean women could be when they got together in “support groups.” Whatever it was, I’m sure I hated it at the time, but I’m grateful to have that “spit in your eye” attitude now.

I’ve fought back against those few gray hairs. I always wanted to be a redhead anyway, so I was happy for the excuse. I’ve fought back against arthritis with drugs for the swelling, drugs for the side effects caused by the drugs for the swelling, willingly jumping into cold water twice a week and having my retinas seared by naked old women showering afterward. I’ve fought back against drying, wrinkling skin with every moisturizer known to man. I spread my legs and bare my breasts for smears and scrapes and x-rays. I allow spots on my back and chest (that have no reason for existence other than confirming the fact that I'm getting older) to be doused in liquid nitrogen. I change my diet for first one thing and then another. I EVEN GAVE UP CHOCOLATE!!! Well, mostly.

As visits to my doctor have gone from once in a blue moon, to once a year,  to three or four times a year, I am beginning to feel the urge to squint my eyes and pinch my mouth, stare my doctor in the eye and spit the words, “I’m a tough old broad” at her. How hard can it be? She’s about four feet tall and 80 pounds; I could squash her with one arthritic hand tied behind my back. She's a scrappy fighter, though; threatening me with the C-word whenever I start feeling tough, forcing me to back down and negotiate a compromise (even though we both know I will probably never follow through). I'm back to twig-girl avoidance tactics, only this time the bullies want to force me to drink caustic chemicals the night before they stick a mile of hose up my ass. Save that stuff for Gitmo, I am outta here.

So I’m not as tough as my mom - sue me. Nobody is as tough as my mom, not even Chuck Norris. When the boogeyman goes to sleep each night, he checks his closet for Chuck Norris.

I haven’t earned T.O.B. (Tough Old Broad) status yet. “I’m a semi-tough middle-aged woman with a tendency to run away” just doesn’t do it; if Chuck Norris wasn't afraid of my mom, he would roundhouse kick the crap out of me. Maybe that will be the next big thing in colonoscopy purging.