random truths – Day 1,082 (Saturday) – snow day

Today is the answer to one of my favorite dorky third grade/Dad jokes.

Q: What is the bossiest day of the year?

A: March 4^th (forth)

I crack myself up with that one every year. Because I'm a dork, in case you wondered.

The weather forecast for the bossiest day of the year called for snow. Unlike many weekends,  there was an actual plan for the day. After sleeping late (8:00), the official plan was to stay inside where it was dry and warm, at least until it stopped snowing. I love personal plans that carry a high rate of success. Winston was feeling extra cuddly and amorous and kept wrapping his paws around my forearm and licking my wrist. 

It snowed most of the day with the tiny flakes pouring forth from the sky. It was the heavy, moist, “widow maker” stuff. Shoveling was a workout, which makes three workouts so far for the entire winter season, including the “angry ice chopping” sessions a week ago. I feel stronger already.

Late in the afternoon, after seeing a Facebook post that the monthly open studio event was taking place at Western Ave Studios, I traded the fleece lounge pants for jeans and bolted out the door. There was only one hour left, but that was enough time to visit a couple studios, particularly that of a handsome painter who recently posted some amazing new paintings done while at a program in the Midwest a few months ago. I chatted with the painter once or twice in his studio before the pandemic.  

I headed out to Pawtucket Boulevard and turned onto the bridge on Mammoth Road. Once across the bridge, I thought it was the wrong bridge and turned onto Pawtucket Street and headed over to the Rourke Bridge.

At the Rourke Bridge I realized the other bridge was the correct bridge and just hadn’t gone far enough down the street. DUH! I turned onto the bridge and crossed the river, landing across the street from Market Basket and Marshalls. It was close to 4:30 and the open studios ended at 5:00. The idea of the handsome painter was abandoned.

Instead of artist studios, it was chain retail. In Marshalls, a pair of white Chelsea boots and pair of white Doc Martens were serious contenders for a share of my wallet. Jeans were browsed. Pants were browsed. Beauty products were browsed. I left empty handed.

Next door at Market Basket, the shopping was more fruitful. Purchases were roasted chickens for Winston, and Tri Sum chips, ice cream, bananas, ramen, and coffee creamer for me. At the deli counter, lobster cakes perilously close to the “sell by” date were on discount and bought for supper.  

The price may have been good, but the lobster cakes were only “meh.” I was glad they weren’t full price, and there is no need to look for them ever again.