chilly in Chicago

The SIL (sister-in-law Ashton) has been teaching Abby where "Sarah lives" on a map. I'm not sure of all the details, because I've yet to see this party trick, but apparently I live in "chilly Chicago." Which isn't too far from the truth. In honor of Abby's new found talent, I give you two chilly Chicago stories--so chilly it's taken almost two weeks for me to write them down.

Story the first.

I bought some pants during my Thanksgiving shopping spree. (This isn't the chilly part.) They were perfectly lovely pants, I just never wanted to wear them. So I decided that I needed food more than I needed pants I was never going to wear. The problem is--or was--that the closest store isn't all that close. But I figured out that if I left from work, I could take a bus to the mall and then walk about a mile.

Which I did. In a snowstorm.

And not just any snowstorm. The kind that isn't so much snow as slush. With a good old Chicago wind to back it up (never mind that by this point I was in Skokie--it's the same evil wind).

I made it to the store, completely soaked, walked in, promised not to touch anything, and returned the pants. I then re-bundled and walked back out to face the storm. Sometime during this process, I realized that my hat was a nasty, sodden mess that I didn't want to put back on my head and that my scarf was too thin to be any help in this weather. There was an Old Navy across the street, so I braved the wind and the slush and the cars (don't worry, I used a crosswalk), and headed in to buy a cute, but affordable scarf and hat.

As I was walking in, a nice man held the door for me, but gave me an odd look. So did the woman who greeted me inside the store with sale details. And then the woman stacking t-shirts. I knew I was wet, but I had just come in from the slushstorm. I grabbed a scarf and was debating over hats when I turned to look in a mirror. And then looked again.

At some point during my journey, my eye makeup had decided to take a trip down my face. Both cheeks were streaked with mascara--and not a single line. A huge, maybe-she-means-it, stylized streak.

Too bad I didn't take a picture.

I cleaned up my face, purchased my scarf and hat, and returned to the storm to wait for the bus home.

Story the second.

Last year, my apartment was freezing. Sleep-in-multiple-layers, maybe-it's-warmer-outside freezing. The only warm room in the apartment was the bedroom my roommate never used. So I would go and stand there sometimes before going to bed.

This year, my apartment was freezing. I had asked my landlord about the heating situation, and he told me it was in good shape. The heat in the hallway confirmed this. So why was my apartment an icebox?

Two days after my shopping adventure, I woke up and could feel a draft. I sleep next to my not-in-use fireplace, so I thought maybe it was coming from there. Wrong answer. Then I checked the heat in the kitchen--it was on; the bathroom--not on; the front room/bedroom--on. And there, huddled over the heater, I felt the draft, coming from over my head.

My window was open. Not wide open, but open. Open enough to freeze my apartment.

So, being the genius that I am, I closed the window. Now there are nights when my apartment is almost too hot.

But just almost.