Well, here it is, March 16th, a day like any other; an ordinary Monday, unless you live in Newfoundland where you are toughing out the blizzard that comes every time this year. I don’t even have to check the Weather Network to see if the place is socked in with snow. The reason I know is because I was raised there, and for almost every one of my 30 years spent on the Rock, there was some sort of weather apocalypse on or around this day—a special nod from the universe, the heralding of chaos, a reminder for everyone of the power of the gods. Naturally, it is the day that marks my entrance to the world, and those gods have been laughing ever since.
The magic number of snow storms is now at 47. I cannot recall a childhood birthday party or an adolescent, alcohol-fuelled, dance ’til you’re dead rampage that was not marred by the plague of a North Atlantic Winter (yes, capital W, you just have to live it to believe it). Now my people, the Irish, call it “Sheila’s Brush.” Sheila, my arse. This is totally about me, as is everything on this good earth: Bobbi’s Blizzard. You’re welcome.
But on this particular birthday, I’m aging (exponentially I might add) among the daffodils and cherry blossoms. It seems wrong somehow, an act of treason for which I may never be forgiven by my brothers and sisters shovelling while cursing my climactic influence. Too bad suckers. I did it for 30 years, I’ve paid my dues. Of course, someday I may find myself back in the land of Nor’Easters and spend my birthday hiding from the townies wielding torches and pitchforks. To those who will bay for my blood: have mercy on an old bag who can’t decide what the frig to do with the rest of her life or find pants that fit.
Until then, I promise I’ll feel badly while stuffing my face with chipotle pulled pork fajitas and chocolate fudge cake, my requested birthday meal this year, a gift from the talented and equally old Rusty. He’s cooking up a storm, as he should be. By the way, did I ever tell you about the time he was standing at the stove, stirring and sautéing when the sleeve of his robe caught the edge of a gas flame? Well, the terry robe lit up, and without missing a beat with his spoons and spatulas, he dropped it on the stone floor, stomped on it, and kept right on cooking, buck naked, for like half an hour. Fierce I tell you. He’s braver in the face (and lower bits) of hot splatter than I would be. But I digress.
So, despite me being responsible for the current state of the east coast, it wouldn’t kill you to send me your good wishes. In fact, unless you want an epic snow-nado-cane for Easter, you better send a fat check as well.