Living in Connecticut has its ups and downs. I like that the state is small enough that I can get from one end to the other, width-wise, in about two hours, but I hate our roads. I like being from Connecticut, but I hate the drivers, our attitudes, and our governor. Our taxes are too high, we have diseases named after our towns, and our nicknames are stupid (Nutmegger? Really?), but the buffet at Mohegan Sun Casino is outstanding.
So you take the good with the bad, I suppose.
One of the wonderful/frustrating thing about Connecticut is the seasons. Meaning they’re never the same from year to year, or even week to week. Last year in October, our temperatures were averaging in the fifties, and I was wearing light sweaters. Foolish me to think this year would be the same.
Sure, October started fall-ish enough. The first weekend, I was content to wear a hoodie as I watched Jason rake leaves. (Just kidding. I stayed inside, ate Tootsie Rolls, and read a book while he toiled.) The temperatures were in the midsixties, pleasant and cool.
Two days later, it was eighty-three degrees. The Tootsie Rolls in my car had melted to resemble cat poo, and I actually peeled off my light sweater and tossed it out the window while stuck in traffic on I-91. (It was black, and blended perfectly with the blown tires that littered the highway. Thank you, Connecticut potholes.) I pulled out a sundress for the next day . . . when the high peaked at fifty-two degrees. I can’t say it was so bad, though, because I was running a low-grade fever with the cold I’d gotten, probably from the temperature dropping by almost thirty degrees in less than twenty-four hours. No worries: the next day, it was back up to seventy again.
None of this is unusual. We’ve come to expect the unexpected in the Constitution State (see? Why can’t we be the Rock Star State or something?), and in the past five years have seen Halloween cancelled due to blizzards, Halloween cancelled due to heat waves and melting candy, and Halloween cancelled due to apathy. (We’re not known for leaving our houses much once summer is over, but on the bright side, getting a Connecticut native riled up about much of anything is nearly impossible. We just don’t care. We should be called the Meh State.) It’s the only place I’ve ever lived where people regularly have both a snow shovel and flip flops inside the front door at the same time.
This week, I debated pulling out my winter wardrobe. (Connecticut women in particular have these: we switch out our closets from a full summer selection of outfits to winter bulk every season.) I’ve learned, however, that around this time of year, it’s wiser to maybe transfer two or three wool sweaters from the winter closet to the main one, because you’ll likely not want to pack up those T-shirts quite yet.
Just yesterday, I put the heat on in my house. Then I woke up in the middle of the night and turned on the AC during a midnight heat wave.
“I hate Connecticut,” I grumbled to Jason the next day.
“Wanna go to the casino buffet this weekend?” he countered.
“I love Connecticut,” I said gleefully. “Let’s eat.”
So you take the good with the bad, I suppose.
One of the wonderful/frustrating thing about Connecticut is the seasons. Meaning they’re never the same from year to year, or even week to week. Last year in October, our temperatures were averaging in the fifties, and I was wearing light sweaters. Foolish me to think this year would be the same.
Sure, October started fall-ish enough. The first weekend, I was content to wear a hoodie as I watched Jason rake leaves. (Just kidding. I stayed inside, ate Tootsie Rolls, and read a book while he toiled.) The temperatures were in the midsixties, pleasant and cool.
Two days later, it was eighty-three degrees. The Tootsie Rolls in my car had melted to resemble cat poo, and I actually peeled off my light sweater and tossed it out the window while stuck in traffic on I-91. (It was black, and blended perfectly with the blown tires that littered the highway. Thank you, Connecticut potholes.) I pulled out a sundress for the next day . . . when the high peaked at fifty-two degrees. I can’t say it was so bad, though, because I was running a low-grade fever with the cold I’d gotten, probably from the temperature dropping by almost thirty degrees in less than twenty-four hours. No worries: the next day, it was back up to seventy again.
None of this is unusual. We’ve come to expect the unexpected in the Constitution State (see? Why can’t we be the Rock Star State or something?), and in the past five years have seen Halloween cancelled due to blizzards, Halloween cancelled due to heat waves and melting candy, and Halloween cancelled due to apathy. (We’re not known for leaving our houses much once summer is over, but on the bright side, getting a Connecticut native riled up about much of anything is nearly impossible. We just don’t care. We should be called the Meh State.) It’s the only place I’ve ever lived where people regularly have both a snow shovel and flip flops inside the front door at the same time.
This week, I debated pulling out my winter wardrobe. (Connecticut women in particular have these: we switch out our closets from a full summer selection of outfits to winter bulk every season.) I’ve learned, however, that around this time of year, it’s wiser to maybe transfer two or three wool sweaters from the winter closet to the main one, because you’ll likely not want to pack up those T-shirts quite yet.
Just yesterday, I put the heat on in my house. Then I woke up in the middle of the night and turned on the AC during a midnight heat wave.
“I hate Connecticut,” I grumbled to Jason the next day.
“Wanna go to the casino buffet this weekend?” he countered.
“I love Connecticut,” I said gleefully. “Let’s eat.”
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