The Winter of Mark's Discontent

So here I am, still alive. I'm not frozen and I have not turned cannibal on Mark because I can't get to the supermarket. I have not lost one single extremity to frostbite while walking the dogs in the brutal, sub-freezing cold. My body seems to have adapted quite quickly to the change of seasons here in Chicago. Twenty seven years in Florida and you would think that I would be soft. I am not. A little chapped with dry skin, but not soft. I can take it. And look, halfway through winter and we are looking at temperatures in the upper forties and even a day or two over fifty. I'd like to say, thanks to all of you who have burned fossil fuels without regard for the climate for the last hundred years. This global warming thing is working out pretty good here in Chicago. I am just happy that I sold that house in Florida when I did. Six feet above sea level was making me a little bit nervous. So we have one and a half months of winter left before spring comes along. I consider March to be the start of spring, and March snow storms to simply be the wakeup call for the crocuses. They say that March comes in like a lion, and goes out like a lamb. Sure, sometimes that lamb is a little bitchy, but I can take it.

Oh, I forgot. Mark. He's not taking it too well. He is not dealing with the sub-freezing temperatures, the ice on the streets, and the snow. Mark spends most of the day whining and complaining. He hates to set foot outside if the temperature falls below thirty three degrees, and even then it's a bitch-fest. At least once a day Mark tells me that he hates me for bringing him to this hell hole, and I remind him that O'Hare is only a few miles away. They have a lot of planes that can take you right back to Florida.