There is something to be said about predictability.

After spending two and a half months in America all I want is to be back there with the prescription drug commercials and chain restaurants. I'm sorry, but I love Cheesecake Factory. And I love Red Lobster. I know they aren't considered sophisticated food establishments but hell if I don't dream about Cheddar Bay Biscuits at least three times a week. I wake up gnawing on Bub's shoulder whispering, "More cocktail sauce, please."

But mostly right now I am missing the weather. It's predictable. When I am in the US in January and February, I expect snow storms. I expect to be stranded in the house for at least two days wondering if we will ever be able to drive the streets again. Is this the end? The Ice Age is here? Was Al Gore right?! And, if so, will my mother disown me for saying it out loud? It's a good kind of predictability that makes me comfortable with my neurotic worrying.

I don't know if you noticed, but it's the end of March; two days away from April. April in Ireland is supposed to be warm and happy. You take trips down to Glendalough and try to get the sun to touch your skin, like every other pasty white Irish person. You say to your significant other, "Let's go have a coffee on the patio of that cafe down the street." They nod in agreement and you take off in only a light sweater. You introduce your child's feet to damp grass but it's okay because it's supposed to be warm out.

This morning after dropping Mister Man off at creche I walked out to my car in snow.

Snow.

SNOW.

Snow in Ireland is rare enough, although this past winter would prove me a liar. In past years, though, there hasn't been much and when there is it's boring flurries that don't stick to the ground and end in 3 minutes. This snow was mean snow. It wasn't sticking the Dublin's southeast but it's still on the ground in the southwest. I nearly froze my fecking fingers off walking to the DART. I couldn't even get out my iPhone to see if I had received any emails at a quarter to eight in the morning. Panic nearly set in. Would my fingers actually fall off? Should they turn white or black first when you have frost bite? They look a bit red - is red good or bad? Will it be humiliating if I go into work crying and they have to call an ambulance because my fingers won't go back to a normal color? This line of questioning is not predictable! I didn't know it was coming. I was supposed to be thinking about marshmallow peeps (the yellow ones) and Robert Pattinson, not the fate of my digits.

During the rest of the day the weather just proceeded to take on a more shitty attitude and by noon I came to terms with the fact that it's springtime, nearly April, and the outside of my office window looked like this:


I'm getting out my winter coat again and am accepting the fact that I will be wearing tights for a little while longer. In the NYC tri-state area it's supposed to be in the 70s; here, the low 50s. I don't think we'll be hitting up that cafe this weekend, nor will we go to Glendalough. We will likely stay in our pajamas for the whole long weekend and eat chocolate while watching really bad TV.

Then again, maybe Ireland is okay.

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Liz in Dublin