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Happy Hate Month (part one)

3.1.15   Sunday, 4:22 p.m. It’s snowing, but I’m pretending that it isn’t (picture an ostrich with its head in a snow bank). Number Two son was supposed to go back to Boston after a week here with me, and by the time I got home today, his plans had changed. The weather, as usual, has changed them for him. The last bus scheduled today from Hyannis is at 3:30; the next available way off the island is at 4 p.m. Oops … that never happens, except every last freakin’ snowstorm, hammering us steadily through February.

But it isn’t February any more; it’s March. And everyone who knows me, and some who don’t, are aware of what that means: Happy Hate Month on Nantucket! Yay! Maybe I should make some resolutions? They will have to wait. I have one last episode of “House of Cards” to watch, which keeps my eyes from wandering to the window; it’s easier to pretend it’s not snowing if I’m not looking at it come down (lightly, almost as if it isn’t really snowing at all, really).

3.2.15   Monday meltdown, which meant there were puddles of water over the solid ice in the driveway, the Zamboni effect. The dogs and I slid out to deposit #2 son at the airport, followed by a romp on the beach. With a stiff wind out the west, the warmer air did not feel especially warm, but the dogs found playmates, and I ran into an old friend. Slid back home through the slush, knowing it was just a tease. Toying with the idea of resolving to remain positive this month. Just a thought; very non-traditional.

3.3.15   Fueled with coffee, I ponder how many vacuum bags it will take to contain all the dog hair attached to my rugs, floors, and furniture. Math is so hard! So is the driveway; it’s frozen again in the cold sunshine, enough that the trash truck crept in and out without incident. Small victories are worth celebrating this month. Resolution #1: appreciate small victories. Resolution #2: vacuum more often (twice daily might gain some ground here, but I will need more bags.) Sadly, the attachment I purchased to vacuum the actual dogs must have been designed to work on a Basenji, not a 130-lb. German shepherd. Must check for critical email one more time before embarking on vacuum mission. Lemon Meringue Bodacious Cupcakes at Bartlett’s, OMG! If I don’t go to Bartlett’s today, that will be another small victory.

I worked up enough internal heat during vacuuming to stand out on the deck in my slippers, brushing the dogs. The snow had finally melted off the brush and comb that live in a basket out there. My black & tan female decided to play with a giant clump of her brother’s white hair, and snuck half of it into the house. Good girl! I hear wheels spinning on ice. The mail truck tried to turn around in the end of my driveway. I can’t quite make it down there unless I crawl on my hands and knees, but I can see a couple of hearty neighbors helping to push, and it’s moving (right past my mailbox; oh well). Better luck next month.

I just let the dogs out for their evening constitutional. My cleared deck has some sort of white stuff all over it. So do the cars. Seriously?

3.4.15   Gloomy, drippy rain has banished the white stuff from the cars and decks, and is busy turning the rest of it into wet mush. March should change its name to Sybil; five inches of snow predicted for tomorrow, followed by (yet another) Very Cold Day. Next week, it’s supposed to be sunny. I’ll believe it when I see it. But it’s Wednesday, and that means only one thing: French Dip Wars. For the last few weeks, since Bart’s has reinstated the French Dip as the midweek sandwich, #2 son and I have faced the challenge of getting out there in time to get one. As of yet, we have not succeeded.

“Hey, there’s French Dips. Do you want to go get one?” “Sure. Just let me take a shower first.” Epic fail, once again. It brings to mind the famous definition of insanity, doing the same thing over and over, and expecting different results. No one can claim sanity in this household, during this month. But we relish the battle.

Resolution #3: it is possible to acquire a French Dip from Bartlett’s. I know this because my son is in Boston, on his way back to the island later today, so he won’t slow me down. He will have his sandwich for dinner tonight, God willing. This is my mission today, along with attempting to resist those lemon meringue cupcakes.

Arrived at the farm at 12:08, feeling triumphant. Apparently that was not early enough to be granted a French Dip; they were already sold out. Defeated, I didn’t even look at the cupcakes. They sicken me. Revised Resolution #3: no crying at Bartlett’s. Note to self: lace on a pair of skates next time I want to get across my yard to the truck. I plan to spend the rest of the day doing fun things, like reading the entire Town Meeting Warrant online, and paying bills. National Grid just came in … my favorite! (Thank you, stuck mail truck. You rock.)

3.5.15   Snowstorm “Thor” lumbers in behind the full moon, some time after 5 a.m. (I know this because a moon-crazed dog decided she needed to go out in the rain at that hour.) I catch a few extra winks, and then… It’s pretty it’s pretty it’s pretty it’s pretty. What do all the compare-and-contrast weather sites online say? Four to seven inches expected, down from eight to twelve. Yadda yadda yadda. There's an Alert: beware of ice under the snow! What else is new? It’s pretty it’s pretty it’s pretty. If I say that long enough, I may drift into the comfort of a catatonic state. A collection of TV weathermen say this is winter’s last blast. Technically, they may be correct, but they have obviously never spent “Spring” on Nantucket.

My boyfriend and the dogs have gone off on a post-breakfast reconnaissance mission to Nobadeer. If they return in one piece, I will venture out later. Maybe. Resolution #4: buy some of those metal things to put on the bottom of my boots so walking on ice is no longer a life-threatening endeavor. If I buy them now, there’s a good chance I won’t need them until next year. If I don’t, we have six more weeks of snow in our future. How do I know that? The full moon told me. Am I mad as a March hare? Yes, truly I am. (To be continued...)