March: The cruelest month

March seems to be the month you get mad at.
We spend all winter looking forward to March and it nearly always disappoints us.
This year it's snowy and cold. Most years it's rainy and bleak.
Only last year did we sing March's praises only to be let down on this one. We want to be golfing, instead we're still shovelling. The only people who love this weather are the ski lift owners and frankly they can just go fuck themselves.
Scott drove me to the hospital yesterday for my MamaGram in a blizzard -- on the highway, a place I never go. We were heading toward Parkdale Avenue in a whiteout and some guy decided he didn't want to take the ramp and dovetailed back into traffic right before our eyes. Then we waited on the ramp because a cop had decided to do a traffic stop.
When I left home, we were right on time for my appointment.
When we finally got to the Civic campus we were fifteen minutes late.
March, the month that always lets us down.
The appointment itself went smoothly.
I only had to wait a few minutes with another woman, both of us clutching our shirts and bras in front of the gowns which seem to be designed by Nicki Minaj to reveal maximum boob. My companion looked nervous. A man walked by in a similar state of undress.
I looked at my companion.
"Well," I said. "You don't see that every day."
We both chuckled.
Breast clinic humor.
In no time, I was in the dreaded machine, my boob smashed and elongated to look like an overachieving eggplant.
"At least you have something to work with," I wisecracked in the general direction of the technician who smiled wanly.
I'm sure she's heard every joke there is.
Then I was back out into the snowstorm, slipping and sliding, towards home. We nearly got hit in the grocery parking lot by some distracted Asian. Reminded me of the time -- I think it was March again -- when a bus made an illegal left handed turn and ran over our Subaru in the Costco parking lot.
March seems to bring out the weird in people.
This morning, I'm sitting here in my pajamas looking out at the mounds of snow, watching Sophie gingerly negotiate the banks while Gordie slides down the hill unaware that poo is slithering out of his elderly anus.
I curse JJ Clarke, the earnest weathercaster.
It won't get better soon, he says.
More bad weather on his radar.
Damn you and your Puxatawny pal, JJ.
Everyone knows rodents lie.
And everyone knows March truly is the cruelest month.