Snow Daze

Something happens to me whenever we get a heavy snowfall like the one we got on Super Bowl Sunday - I turn into a pajama-wearing, donut-eating, binge-watching slug. My husband, on the other hand, is none of those things. He's unfailingly up at the crack of dawn, tackling the driveway with his trusty shovel. (I have given up trying to entice him to bring our snowblower up from its cobweb-encrusted corner of the basement). While I'm ready for a nap under the nearest down comforter, he's jumping around like a little kid, invigorated by the single digit temperatures, challenged by the blustery winds that blow his carefully mounded snow piles back in his face, and grateful for the chance to get another frosty workout.

This particular storm, the fifth biggest snowfall in Chicago history, was no different. By the end of the afternoon, I was still parked on the couch appreciating yet another episode of Parenthood while he was putting the finishing touches on another massive snow fort (please keep in mind that our youngest child is twenty-six and our grandson is several months away from crawling before applauding his creative efforts). Every so often he attempted to pry me off the sofa with "enticing" offers of a trudge around the block or a snowball fight but I (and my rapidly expanding ass) remained steadfast. Look, I appreciate the frosty beauty of being dumped on by Mother Nature as much as the next guy but six decades of dealing with snowdrifts over my head and winds that whip through the heartiest long-underwear have tempered my enthusiasm. I will admit to a few pangs of guilt about not picking up a shovel and giving the poor guy a hand but after reminding myself of all the times I had to deal with that driveway on my own when he was off in sunny Singapore on business, I took another sip of hot chocolate and the feeling passed.

In the end, everybody got what they wanted. I ate an entire (small) can of Pillsbury cinnamon rolls while I watched Novak Djokovic dispatch Andy Murray for the Australian Open title and my hubby ended up with the cleanest driveway on the cul-de-sac and a snow fort that resembled Windsor Castle.

Once again, proof that marriage is a beautiful thing.

Winter Rant

I'm so over: snow, ice, cold, slush, freezing rain, icicles, flurries, blizzards (yes, even the Dairy Queen variety - I'm boycotting on principle alone), wind chill advisories, shoveling, scraping, defrosting, de-icing, turning up the heat, outrageous gas bills from turning up the heat, heavy sweaters, thick socks, sweatpants, long underwear, layering, mittens, gloves, scarves, hoodies, boots, down comforters, extra blankets, shivering, sniffling,sneezing, chapped lips, dry skin, brittle nails, hot soup, hot tea, hot chocolate (with or without marshmallows), and hibernation.

I'm so ready for: sunshine, green grass, leaves on the trees, flowers, heat advisories, air-conditioning, walks in the park, driving with the windows open, bicycles, sleeveless tops (yes, even with my grandma arms), shorts, capris, flip-flops, strappy sandals, (notice I didn't say "bathing suits" - I may be desperate but I'm not crazy), barbecues, picnics, farmstands, farmer's markets, craft fairs, outdoor festivals, concerts in the park, lemonade, white wine, hot dogs, ribs, watermelon, ice cream cones, baseball, golf, tennis, sitting on my deck, birds chirping and seeing human beings venture outside their homes.

C'mon, Spring.

Anywhere but Here

When I was sixteen, I saw California for the first time. I remember being blown away by the mountains, the climate, the ocean. After a week in la-la-land, I was convinced that someday it would be my home; that I would hightail it out of flat, frigid Illinois as soon as I was able. California had palm trees, movie stars, sandy beaches. In my teenage eyes, it was paradise. And I was determined I would one day take up residence.

Decades later, I'm still in the state of my birth and I can't explain why.

Don't get me wrong. Chicago is a great town - beautiful skyline, cultural opportunities up the wazoo and, despite Jon Stewart's tirade to the contrary, the best pizza this side of Naples. I love it. . .from April through October. After that, it slides down to Number 182 on my list of places in which I actually want to live, falling somewhere in between India and Iraq.

Today, the schools are closed for the third time this month, not for a snow day (although there's a ton of that on the ground) but for sub-zero temperatures. I believe the high will top out at -4 and the low will be a fit-for-polar-bears only -18. And like a bear, all I want to do is hibernate.  I put on my three sweaters and long underwear (even if I do not intend to venture out, it's the only think that keeps me warm) and spend as much time as I can huddled under a down comforter, pulling my hands out from under the covers only to change the channel on the remote or sip my hot chocolate.

This is no way to live - except for the hot chocolate.

After being lucky enough to have spent a week in Mexico, I know January doesn't have to look like this. There are places in this world whose residents never have to dig their way out of a two foot snow drift. I want to live in one of them. There are people in this world who get to wear shorts and walk on the beach almost every day of the year. I want to be one of them (except for the shorts thing - with my varicose veins, I should make it capris). There are better things to do than trying to figure out a way to get feeling back in my fingertips after walking to the mailbox. And I want to do them.

I know my California dream is dead - I refuse to spend $650,000 for a two bedroom bungalow that needs some TLC anyway. I know moving west was a foolish, young girl's dream. But this foolish, old girl still dreams. She dreams of escape - from December 26 until somewhere around April 1.

Spring, Summer, Fall. Escape. Those are four seasons I think I can live with.

Enough Already

If I haven't mentioned it before, I'm not a big fan of cold weather. I'm the kind of gal that needs a sweater and a good pair of socks when the temperature dips below 70 so you can imagine how I feel about dealing with Chicago winters. Granted, this one hasn't been as bad as most but I still have days when I can't get warm no matter what I do and I've done just about everything except hop inside my nicely pre-heated 350 degree oven.

But now it's March. Tomorrow is the first full day of Spring. And it's 19 degrees outside. Not funny.

I'm ready to pack up the fuzzy socks and fleece jackets and dig out the shorts and flip flops. I'm ready to pack up the space heater in the family room and open up the windows. I'm ready to put away the slow cooker and crank up the barbeque grill.

I am not ready for more winter.

Enough Already

Okay. Yesterday it was 71 degrees and today was 41. I've had it with weather that cannot make up its mind. Is this Spring? Are we on our way to summer? Or have we been sucked into a 'Groundhog's Day' vortex of the winter that just will not die? I'm starting to think it's the latter.

You'd think I would be used to it by now. I've lived in Chicago most of my life and, when I got the chance to escape, I ended up in England where the lack of sunshine was enough to make me want to take a dive off the London Bridge (if it hadn't already relocated to its sunny new home in Arizona). Maybe that's one more reason I'm so enamored with Italy. Among other things going for it, there seems to be an endless supply of sunny days without the joys of twenty-seven inch snowfalls and winters that last for six months.

I've dealt with this winter for long enough. I just want to pack up the heavy sweaters. I want to deposit the hats, boots and gloves in the back of the closet. I want to turn off the heat. I want to take the extra blankets off the bed. Oh, wait. I forgot. I live in Chicago. I can't safely do any of those things until May. But, if I'm lucky, I may not need any of them again until September.

Digging Out

It's a weird feeling to have your life in the hands of a stranger that operates a truck with a big, metal plate attached to the front. After experiencing the biggest snowstorm since I was a teenager, I'm now a prisoner in my own home. Granted, it's a nice place to be imprisoned, what with the HD TV and fully stocked fridge. Don't think I haven't taken the time over the last twenty-four hours to thank God for that particular blessing.

Every winter I ask myself what I'm doing here. Every winter my answer gets a little louder. I DON'T KNOW. Shoveling two feet of snow at 8:00 A.M. is not my idea of a fun wake up call. And my crazy husband refuses to use our perfectly good snow blower that resides in the basement. 'It's too heavy', 'It's too small', ' 'I can do it quicker by hand' are his favorite excuses. Today he rolled out a new one. "The fumes make me nauseous", he said as our neighbor offered him the use of his heavy duty machine. I tried to remind him that nauseating fumes were preferable to a coronary but he wasn't hearing any of it. Maybe I wouldn't mind so much if my son were still here to man the second shovel but since that job now falls to me, I'm not empathizing with my husband's sensitive nose as much as I probably should.

Now he's informed me to be ready for "night shoveling" after the plow makes it through to our cul-de-sac. This winter just keeps getting better and better.

Back to Reality

Well, the holidays are finally over. Except for a couple of returns I've yet to make, my trips to Marshalls and T.J. Maxx have come to an end. The cookie tins that used to occupy an entire countertop have been whittled down to one lonely canister housing the last of the sugar dusted reindeer. Thank God. The tree and its decorative cousins are still around but their days are numbered. Now it's time to return to winter reality in the Midwest.

I hate January and February. There, I said it. Long, icy, frigid, snowy months with nothing to show for them except Valentine's Day, a lame holiday designed to make women fatter and men feel inadequate. Once the holidays, full of parties, family get-togethers and food, are over, I have absolutely no use for the rest of winter. I think someone in my family must have mated at some point with a grizzly, as all I want to do this time of year is put on my pajamas and hibernate. (Okay, I know grizzlies don't possess pajamas but, hey, it's cold and that's the only analogy my frozen brain could come up with).

On a positive note, I am encouraged that I have actually fulfilled my 2009 new year resolution by completing the first draft of my book. While I hunker down at home, the editing should (if I stop procrastinating) keep me busy until Spring allows me to venture outside. Until then, I'll have to content myself with the fact that the Bears are in the playoffs. Now there's something to look forward to.

Some Things Never Change

Today, I looked out of my bathroom window to see a familiar sight. The ritual of building a massive snow fort after the first major storm had begun. Snow was flying everywhere as the mound of white stuff deposited at the end of the cul-de-sac by our friendly, neighborhood plow began to take shape. My husband and son were crawling around on all fours as they dug out places to sit, as well as a tunnel to wiggle through. Gloved hands painstakingly molded the outer walls until the icy mass resembled an Eskimo palace. In years past I would have been a puddle of tears watching father and son build their masterpiece but this year I was too busy laughing. My husband is fifty-seven and my son is twenty-two!

They said they were getting it ready for my ten year old nephew's arrival but I wasn't falling for that one. I have no doubt that they were enjoying themselves just for the sheer fun of getting out there and playing in the snow. Hey, anything that gets my son away from video gaming and my husband away from his desk is okay by me. The fact that they were having so much fun constructing this winter playhouse (due to melt by the end of the week) made me appreciate the fact that our kids are still living with us. It's not often that I see anything resembling a Norman Rockwell painting around here so I'm going to savor every moment I get. I might even be waiting with the hot chocolate. With marshmallows.