All Pictures Victoria RectorI hate Winter. Even here in beautiful Logan Square, where, truth be told, we had a damn good long run this season – it’s over, as you can see. Oh sure – slush and snow and boots and exciting scarf options are part of the Logan Life. What we lack in glamour, we certainly make up for in rugged charm. But…

You know how sometimes walking through snow is so delightful, and the snow itself is like soft powdery wonderful kisses from the fluffy bunny angels in their downy bunny Heaven…raining down upon you like a benediction of softness?

This is NOT that snow.

All Pictures Victoria Rector

...This is not THAT snow either: this is last year's Blizzaster, and there's a minivan under there.









This is a hideous wet and heavy beast lying in wait for the sun to go down. For the freeeezing to begin…. And now that we get to worry about being ticketed for not clearing public paths, I’ve been out frantically sweeping the slush… because I’m just not clear on what they mean by “Public” – so I’m POSITIVE I will somehow be ticketed.

All Pictures Victoria RectorI’m still going through Paris withdrawal; I have a particularly mean-spirited and leaky head-cold; I’m broke and it was just warm and sunny yesterday. How much meaner can you be, Chicago Weather? Oh – and take a look: That’s traffic at 3:30 on Fullerton, heading west. I think we ALL know what will happen in a matter of minutes when the sun goes down and all that slushy Eeeevil begins to freeze.

I’m against all of this – the cold, the lack of sunlight, the possibility of the ticket, the pounds of salt that kill flowers in the spring – and quite frankly – makes it no safer to walk. I’d prefer crunchy piles of trampled snow to one slick sheet of ice that goes on for 30 feet, Thank You. But mostly, I’d prefer to be in the Southern Hemisphere right now…. mmmm… perhaps on a boat….

I can see this weekend perfectly: books, chick flicks, tea, blankets. (El Spousador will be traveling, so I can finally start that Jane Austen mini-festival I’ve been planning for, oh, 3 years.) Just get me through tomorrow without anything dramatic happening, and a festival of house-bound sloth awaits.