The weatherman who cried wolf

We slept with flash lights by our beds last night. For the umpteenth time in a few weeks, there was a tornado warning for our area.

In our nearly 3 years in Illinois, we've yet to be hit by a tornado. (Wood? Wood? Where are you?) I don't know if it's because we live in a suburban area, sheer luck, or we just smell bad, but all these false alarms are creating a false sense of security.

Last night, as the Weather Channel beeped out hideous warnings and promises - "A dangerous storm with damaging winds will reach you in 10 minutes! Seek shelter! Put on some deodorant!" - Mr. Dub got out the flashlights and emergency backpacks, while I typed some emails.

Maybe I'm just mad. Coming from Arizona, where our big natural worry is drought, it's hard to live in a place where deadly tornadoes are commonplace. And now, apparently, we also have earthquakes to worry about. So I'm sorta ticked, and I think the tornadoes know it.

Anyhow, there was no tornado. There were no damaging winds. There was no soft-ball sized hail. There was an intense downpour ... and a lingering distrust in meteorology.

Do you trust your weatherman?

Call me Richter

Not my house or my buttocks

Last night I had the "privilege" of being up during the night with a sick Miss Dub. (To her credit, she asked to stay in her crib the whole time but wanted us to rub her back.) Around 4:30, I returned to my bed, when it began to shake. Having been privy to a few major earthquakes and thousands of aftershocks when I lived in El Salvador, I knew the feeling. I told Mr. Dub, "I think it's an earthquake." Still standing, he said he didn't feel anything, but I stayed firm in my opinion. Then, a strange whining noise came from outside, shortly followed by a strange whining noise coming from inside. Who knows what the first sound was, but the latter was our own Miss Dub in need of some more back rubbing.

Sleeping on her floor distracted me from the whole quake controversy, which I totally forgot about until this headline greeted me this morning: Earthquake shakes Midwest. Yep. A 5.2 magnitude temblor centered in southeast Illinois hit at 4:37 a.m. So I was right. And it's not the first time - I felt an even smaller, more distantly centered earthquake when we lived in Utah. And while I don't mean to question the good folks at USGS, wouldn't I be a lot cheaper at measuring and predicting earthquakes than expensive and impersonal equipment?

Just an idea.

Here's my first prediction: I'm going to need a nap before the "big one" hits.

For Your Edification

I feel a clarification is in order.

For the record, I HEART Chicago.

I don’t just like Chicago.

I don’t just endure Chicago.

I don’t hate Chicago.

I loOove Chicago so much I would make-out with it and there would be frenching involved.

But I don’t want to live here forever. And I think that’s OK.

Because I can love Chicago for what it is (a beautiful, vibrant, cultured city) and still not like things about it (i.e. the winter and any darn thing I don’t care for, so sue me).

Part of the reason you might think I don’t HEART Chicago is because Chicago was never meant to be home. Chicago was supposed to be an amazing 1-2 year adventure, where Mr. Dub would get his master’s of smarty pants, and I would explore the city when not heavy with child. We would savor every last bit of our urban life, only to pack up and head back to western suburbia when our time was done.

But two days shy of our western voyage, we ended up staying here. And while we traded our $100-a-month parking space for a piece of the ‘burbs, we’re still 30 minutes from the Magnificent Mile. And nearly four hours on plane from anyone who shares our genetic composition.

Which is OK … for now.

Just this past weekend we headed downtown and joined the throngs at Millenium Park celebrating the Blues Festival. We dined with a close family friend and walked around the city in late summer sunlight. It was fun. It was invigorating. It made me HEART Chicago all over again.

And not a day goes by that I don’t drive my dearest to work and remark on the sheer beauty of the tree-lined street and its lush canopies. Chicago may be a city, but we’re still the Midwest, which means there are forests a’plenty and scenic farmscapes mere minutes from The Loop.

(To be honest, Arizona looked a little dirty to me when I was visiting. And I double-HEART Arizona.)

But in the winter here, not a day goes by that I don’t complain about the cold, gray look of leafless trees, salted roads and dull skies. That I don’t lament the fact that I have to lug Miss Dub around in negative temps. That I don’t try my darndest to figure out just what you’re supposed to do with your ankle-length down coat and six additional layers once you get inside the grocery store.

And I miss my family. I miss my friends. I miss the West and its spirit.

But that doesn’t mean I’m not making friends out here, that I’m not happy where I am, that I’m not treating Chicago as a permanent destination and not just some stopping point on my life road map.

I enjoy it.

I treasure it.

I HEART Chicago because Chicago is home … for now.

And when it’s not, that will be OK, too.

I’ll just open my HEART to some place else.

Just thought you should know.

Land of Lincoln

It dawned on me the other day that we’ve now lived longer as married couple in Illinois than any other state.

Longer than Utah. (15 months post wedding)

Longer than Arizona. (9 months)

Longer than Colorado. (3 months)

Longer than Hawaii. (0 months, but how nice would that be?)

Because we’ve now lived in Illinois for 16 months.

Yet, I still feel like I’m new here.

I still scratch my head when people refer to neighborhoods like Cicero, Englewood and Austin. (As the news anchors do most days.) They’re south-ish, right?

I still can’t tell you all the names of the Metra and El lines. (Purple, brown, yellow and – hey, have you heard that navy is the new black?)

I haven’t eaten at any of the amazing restaurants downtown. I haven’t been to the Museum of Science and Industry. I haven’t walked the entire length of the Magnificent Mile, though I’ve covered many miles just south of it. I haven’t even been to Nauvoo.

I don’t totally understand wind-chill. I don’t know the 15 ways to creatively wrap a scarf. I don’t know all the ingredients of a Chicago dog by memory. I don’t know any reputed mobsters. (They’re all “reputed” in Illinois, it seems.) I don't even know what you call someone who hails from Illinois ... Illinoisan, Illinoisian, Illinoising?

And I really have myself to blame. Because despite the fact that I’ve lived here as long as I lived in El Salvador, I feel less of a bond with my Illinois compatriots than I did with my Central American friends.

Maybe it’s because this situation was supposed to be temporary. Maybe it’s because it’s so disgustingly cold in the winter that I want to vomit. Maybe it’s because I spent much of my time here vomiting … due to pregnancy. Maybe it’s because the Midwest accent and lifestyle don’t jive with my Southwestern roots. Maybe it’s because most of my friends and fam live thousands of miles away.

Maybe I just don’t like Illinois.

Or … maybe Illinois just doesn’t like me.

Maybe I’m not cool enough for its beautiful forests and stunning cityscapes. Maybe I’m not hip enough for its urban nightlife and literary events. Maybe I’m not cultured enough for its historic architecture and picturesque communities. Maybe I’m not Midwest enough for its dense vegetation and expansive lake.

Maybe I don’t own enough sweaters. Maybe I don’t have a post-graduate degree. Maybe I don’t remember Christmas shopping at Marshall Field's. Maybe I don’t care that Macy’s bought out Marshall Field's. (Except that they got rid of Free People clothing, which has seriously ruined window shopping.)

So, fine, Illinois.

Hate me if you must.

Refuse to accept me as a citizen.

I got your stupid driver’s license. I’m going to put on those plates this week. I even call Dreyer’s ice cream Edy’s now. And I no longer refer to Dominick’s as Albertson’s.

It looks like I’m going to be here a while. So we might as well learn to like each other.

Unless, of course, anyone wants to offer my husband a job out West. Because we would leave in a heartbeat.

Sorry, Illinois.

An open letter

Dear Snow,

Hello again. I see you made yourself comfortable outside while I was sleeping last night. I do appreciate that you resisted the temptation to bombard us with oodles of snow, as predicted, and settled for a light dusting instead. I also want to thank you for giving us many weeks of unseasonably warm weather.

But now you are here and you’ll probably be sticking around until late May. So I suppose I should start making my peace with you. I should accept that I live in a place notorious for brutal winters; that my Arizona blood better thicken up, or at least bundle up.

Don’t get me wrong, Snow. I still have bitter feelings toward you. I would rather be poolside. I would rather be on a beach. I would rather be wearing open-toed wedges and a breezy skirt. I would rather be wiping the perspiration off my forehead than covering it with a wool cap.

You cause accidents. You cause power outages. You cause traffic delays and outfit anxiety. You ruin outdoor events. You make life complicated, not to mention cold.

But when I first woke up and saw your soft blanket beyond my back door, I thought, “You’re beautiful.”

Sincerely,
Mrs. Dub