Jun. 2, 2005 – Originally published by CNC, Inc. – Dateline: WeatherCenter

Another Wicked Nor'easter, Hey?

So, what is it with you, New England?  Just when I – a transplant from Maryland - thought I had you all figured out and dared to hope that we had formed an agreement to live and let live –   what I call “trash” you call rubbish, what I call a basement, you call a “cella,” I say “modern art” and you say “moden aaaht” – well, you turn around and have two different types of Nor’easters!  Now, I thought that the term “Nor’easter” was kind of show-offy at first, to be honest – it sounded like the type of thing Diane Lane’s character would say in “The Perfect Storm” (the movie where she moped after her fella and left her New England accent at home).  Can’t you just hear her – “I got a lovin’ man on that swordfish boat and a Nor’easter comin’ this way!  It ain’t pretty, Big Ma!”  Anyhoo, I thought that you all were just showing off until I experienced a Nor’easter.  It started out innocently enough – lashing winds, snow piled up to the roof, ice ten inches thick on the roads and clouds that threatened the Apocalypse – and then things got interesting.  Cut to three days and fourteen inches of snow later, I was huddled in a corner of my house facing the wall giggling softly to myself and pretending a lamp was a telephone while my family searched for tranquilizers or nature shows on TV.  “Why did your ancesters settle here?” I demanded tearfully of my husband, who was busy trying to wash crayon scribble off the wall (mine). “Haven’t you people ever heard of Boca?  Miami Beach?  Baltimore?”  With true New England grit, he turned away from my rantings and watched more hockey.

But I thought that we had an understanding, ol’ New England and I.  I would stop using the phrase, “Well, bless your heart,” and you, New England, would only deliver one brain-musher of a snowstorm per year.  I guess I was wrong to trust you, fickle, fickle land of our forefathers.

A mere few days ago I was minding my own business folding laundry when Natalie Jacobson came on the TV and informed me that we were gearing up for a “Nor’easter.”  I waggled my finger at Natalie, who gazed back at me.  “Don’t you try it Natalie, gal,” I said to her.  “Look outside – it’s spring!”  Natalie looked calmly out at me and then threw it over to Dickie Albert, who confirmed that we were in fact having a Nor’easter.  His weather map was a hum-dinger, all right – masses of angry swirls and a moving, jerky, digital coastline.  I didn’t pay it much attention, though – I chalked it up to a busted Dopplar and let it go.  Then, the rains came.  And came.  We stood at T-Ball in the first rainfall, patiently watching three full innings of children swinging wildly at the ball and coaches ducking for cover as bats, balls, gloves, Ring-Pops, Sponge-Bob backpack clips, and the like were thrown to first base to get the all-important “out.”  We parents stood like drowned rats and waited for our All-Stars to get tired, which they never do.  Later that night, as our shutters fell off the house and my decorative porch pillows landed in a tree, I yelled over the ruckus to my husband, “So, can there be a Nor’easter in spring?”  There’s no hockey to eascape to this time, so he had to answer me.  “I guess so,” he said, and got up to find my crayons.

As you all know, the rain lasted for days.  Soon, everyone I saw had Rain Dementia, where all interest in your own personal dreams and goals is generally lost and you start wearing your pajamas everywhere and you begin to follow news you never had an interest in before, like who won “American Idol.”  I fought until there were angry tears in my eyes with a total stranger at the train station over who was better: Bo Bice or Carrie Underwood.  “Did you even see any of the competition, lady?” the stranger demanded, shaking his broken, cockeyed umbrella at me.  “No, but its raining again and that makes me right!” I screamed as passengers cheered me on, just like in a scene from “Rocky.”

So, hopefully it’ll all end soon and we can either get on with spring or just go right on into winter; I don’t really even care anymore. New England, you’ve beaten me.  And all I can say is: well, bless your heart.