Complaining about the weather is something that should be restricted to a quilting bee from the 1840s: nothing, except perhaps unrefrigerated halibut, ages worse than reading about how bad the weather was during a particular era. But this is a blog, a diary, and if I’m going to be reading this years from now (or if I get tremendously famous, and my biographers are picking through this thing posthumously) they and I need to know just how bad it has been.
I used to think that moving to Florida was the most efficient way to bring quick death to your dreams. Old people did it, and slid into early dementia, their brown carcasses hanging off their cancerous bodies, tennis lessons featuring players who can barely move, games of mah-jongg where nobody says anything for three days. Now that doesn’t seem so bad anymore.
The weather since mid-October has been one dreariness after another. It is so bad that the New York Times is running a different story each day about the collective mood of the Eastern Seaboard. To put it into numbers, it has been one of the coldest winters since 1888, the coldest spring since 1940, the wettest June ever recorded, the daily temperature has averaged 15 degrees below normal each day, and it has rained in New York City 29 of the last 52 days. Up here in Columbia County, it has been colder and rained more. Even Tessa, who normally views the weather with the same insouciance she reserves for hockey, finally lost it today.
On behalf of New England, I would officially like to extend my middle finger to the troposphere and say FUCK OFF ALREADY. I first posted this little forecast I made for March – almost four months ago – and it still holds true today. Just change the temperatures by a few degrees, and you’ve got it: