February Is the Cruellest Month

T. S. Eliot wrote hauntingly, sweepingly, but he didn’t have his months straight. April has nothing over February as far as cruelty, and winter rarely keeps us warm in forgetful snow.

 

By Robin Jovanovich

 

T. S. Eliot wrote hauntingly, sweepingly, but he didn’t have his months straight. April has nothing over February as far as cruelty, and winter rarely keeps us warm in forgetful snow.

 

What most sane people would like is to have February eradicated from memory. It has made a mockery of global warming. It is certainly not the time to celebrate romance. And more telemarketing calls are made than in any other month because they know you can’t leave your home!

 

On the days I risked my life backing down my driveway because I had to get to work — nearly hitting or being hit as my car slid all the way to the middle of Milton Road — the phone rang off the hook. I slammed the phone down after the fifth call from a telemarketer.

 

The next call was from a disgruntled reader who called about the mistake in our Community Calendar — for February. I was cordial at first, explaining that we unhappily discovered the error in late August, when the first resident called to report it. I went on to say that among the many residents who’ve called since, most understood and even shared a laugh over the fact that we had Valentine’s Day on February 12. One husband hooted when I told him I suspected my husband had had something to do with the printing error because Valentine’s Day was our wedding anniversary.

 

But my attempt at chattiness only served to enrage this February caller.

 

“How can you take the matter lightly? Don’t you realize the severity of your error?”

 

My blood was boiling at that point, but I just kept calm and carried on, telling this complainer — who was obviously suffering a fatal case of Februaritis — that I was sorry if the error caused her any inconvenience.

 

But she came back with: “A fourth grader wouldn’t have made that kind of mistake!”

 

She was toast now. I was ready to punch back and rage about the decline in the American education system and tell her to have a #!*! Day. But sanity, if not civility, ruled. After all, I didn’t want to end up in my own Police Blotter for office phone violence. So I suggested she turn to March, where all the days were in order, and hung up a little too hard.

 

There’s more where that came from in February. In the last three weeks, dozens of out-of-town subscribers have called to say they didn’t receive the January issues, much less the first February one. The few nice conversations I had were with Georgia residents who asked if the weather was as bad in Rye as it was down there.

 

My email system is about to crash from the number of unsolicited messages inviting me to meet a new partner, update office morale, recapture the feeling, switch to e-cigarettes for a real smoking experience, and choose sobriety. A few more days of February and my husband and I will both be scouting out prospects on the Ashley Madison Agent site.

 

Through January, I was never taken for a hermit, but what choice has February given us than to have our hand on the remote or in the cookie drawer? “Yes, dear, I’d love to watch an unheard-of BBC series from the last decade. Let me put more butter on the popcorn first.” The cultural bar is not too low this month, and the fat content not too high. The series in which an English pure bred barks a lot are good for my dog’s fitness, because at least she raises her head. The poor pup has put on a few ounces because her owner is challenged by black ice, and she road salt. She refuses to let me put on her ugly plastic booties and all that salt on city streets hurts, she explains in woeful whimpers. We will occasionally walk in the middle of a road, but either a pothole, or a crazed driver avoiding a pothole or just showing his SUV stuff, sends us packing.

 

This unmerry month seems to bring bad drivers out of the woodwork. When the weather report calls for caution, they are anything but. They also overlook street signs with reckless abandon — because they spot a free parking space, want to get closer to a store, or maybe are just thinking “What the Hell!” With all that piled-up snow and ice, why not turn the wrong way into Parking Lot 1 when you are headed to the Y. So what if you drive from Elm into Parking Lot 2 because Crisfield’s is about to close. Don’t apologize to the person who is crossing the street; give them the upturned finger and honk at them!

 

It’s February, kind of like Chinatown, Jake.