It was a frosty 57 in my house this morning; it snowed yesterday in the northern part of my state.
It’s the middle of October.
Not the middle of November. Not the middle of December. OC-TO-BER.
I put the heat on. And it wasn’t the first time.
Tell me again why I live here?
I know a lot of steely people who refuse to put the heat on until a certain date, like November 1st. But I never last that long. For someone who grew up in New England, I hate the cold. I love so much about New England—the gorgeous coastline, the fall foliage, the rich history, the smell of fresh cut grass at Fenway….but once the leaves start to fall and a chill permeates the air, I get cranky.
You can say it. Go ahead. I’m a total wimp. The minute the thermostat says it’s below 65 in here, Pavlov hits the switch. (It’s for the children, you see!)
The woman on tv just said it’s 29 degrees out, and the highs today will be 44-48 degrees. Judging by her hair and makeup, I’m pretty sure she was a meteorologist and not a stand up comic—but one can hope, no?
It’s all a matter of perspective. If it were mid December, I’d accept it and put on a sweater and heavy fleece and be glad it wasn’t snowing. If it were mid January, I’d be doing the happy dance and probably be asking my husband, “Do you think it’s warm enough for capris?”
But October? Oh yeah, it’s my party and I’ll cry if I want to!
A guy from the west coast sat next to me on the train the other day.
“I’m from Malibuuuuuuuuuuu,” he preened. Well la-dee-da. Tell Charlie Sheen I say hi!
“And I? Am from the frozen tundra,” I retorted, “And I love it!” It was only a slight fib. I do love it. The six months of the year that it’s not almost winter, winter and almost spring. And besides, people with muffin tops are not allowed in southern Cal!
Did he assume from my People mag, I’d be impressed he hailed from the land o the beautiful ones? I merely grabbed Peep and not The Wall Street Journal because it was much smaller and easier to roll up into my over packed bag!
(It is too true! Get your facts straight—Peep is very portable! I could care less about Jon Gosselin and Lindsay Lohan’s dad’s bromance! I SO want to read about the Dow. I do!)
Besides, why would I want to live out there and mingle with the stars (Good for you that you had lipo! I don’t want lipo! I don’t need lipo! Okay, maybe I need lipo.) And lie at the beach in October? (I can’t lie at the beach here in July. With three boys four and under, I’m a lifeguard not a sunbather—and besides, I haven’t had lipo!) Wine and dine al fresco, you say? (Al what? If it doesn’t have a plastic pager or kids coloring pages, I ain’t going anyway! And the last time I dined al fresco with my husband ALONE, I blew my big shot out with the grown ups… by dropping my beer glass on the sidewalk. Save it—it was my first one. I am THAT clutzy. And you wonder why I failed at organized sports? I can’t navigate a glass to my lips—you think I’m going to get a ball in a hoop?)
So when train guy bragged about planning to go body surfing when he got back to the OC, instead of shouting, “Rat bastard! Them are fightin’ words!”, I did what any self respecting New Englander would do.
I bit my lip. I held my tongue. And I lied.
“That sounds nice. But I have to tell you, I can’t wait for it to snow. We’ll make snowmen with the kids, go sledding, and maybe put a small ice rink in our back yard to skate whenever we want! And, we’ll have cocoa with marshmallows!” Yes, it will be a scene to rival Currier and Ives…. when I’m not wiping runny noses, peeling 18 layers off some gremlin who says, ‘I have to pee!’ the minute we get outside, and spending a million dollars on heating fuel because the blood that courses through my veins is about as thin as that of a South Floridian of 90!
I think he bought it. Do you think he bought it?