For God's Sake Would You Cover Yourself? And Give Me $1.

Today I paid $7.06 for a salad. Romaine lettuce, black olives, carrot, grilled asparagus and chicken cutlet. One of these ingredients had better imbue me with magic powers.

It is absolutely gorgeous outside. In fact, we’ve had two beauties in a row. However, I don’t think we’re quite at the ‘Open Toed Shoes’ stage yet. In the past two days, I have seen some prematurely exposed, psychologically scarring feet. People, before you whip out your nasty clod-hoppers, you must get a post-winter pedicure. Be prepared for a long ordeal because the Korean ladies will scream in horror at the calcified chips of steel that are your toenails. And they’re gonna have to use a buzz saw to get at them. For the calluses? An electric sander should do. Jing May better work! That nasty raw potato skin will not just slough off. We’re talking nearly 5 months of freezing temperatures, dry air and house arrest in a pair of Timberlands. She may even have to go a few rounds. Prepare thyself accordingly. In the meantime, keep ‘em covered.

While we’re on the subject of covering, I also need to mention the clothing issue. Our bodies have been hibernating. We are flabby and pale. Why then, would we want to subject each other to that which protrudes from our tanks, shorts and belly shirts? A little discretion would be nice. If your gut floweth over, hideth it. The overexcitement reminds me of when I was a young babe. As soon as we heard the weatherman say, “62 and rising,” my brother and I would rip off the Catholic school wool (for which, btw, I have built such a tolerance I could wear a wool thong) hella quick, and run to our rooms and plow through our closets to find a pair of shorts. We’d be outside feeling liberated, shamelessly half-naked, riding our bicycles when, not 10 minutes later, Mom would be out on our porch yelling. “Get in here NOW! Come back inside and put on pants and jackets. This is pneumonia weather! Don’t go gettin’ gay!” (OFF TOPIC BUT FUNNY: I showed her! Sorry, Mom. I got really gay. Any regret about that word choice?) And she was right, as always. Though no one got pneumonia, it did get cold and snowy again. Mom and her tirade were vilified.

Incidentally, there is no such thing as Spring in Chicago. We go immediately from setting records for diving below Antarctic wind chills to the oppressive heat indigenous to the 4th circle of Hell. In the all too brief transition between Winter and Summer, there might be as many as 4 days where the sun peeks out and temps hit the low 60s. Wahoo! But that’s it. Chicago’s best asset during this time (and most others) is Lake Michigan. If you’re anywhere near it in the Spring, it’s always a bit warmer by the water. And if you’re lucky enough to catch a summer breeze blowing in from the East, the sweltering 95% humidity is temporarily lifted. But few Chicagoans actually live by the lake, and those who do pay handsomely for the privilege. Oprah’s got a nice pad on Lake Shore Drive. Local celebs like John Cusak do, too. But non-autograph signers with the cash to compete live elsewhere on the North Shore, in exclusive communities like Lake Forest and Kenilworth. Did you know that houses in these spots boast beach front property? Well, you’re not supposed to. No one is ever allowed to go there, especially not the wrong kind of people. In fact, these suburbs don’t exactly discourage cross burning. Their income per capita trumps what NYC spends on its schools, police and pigeon patrol. Simply put, it’s their lake. They own the damn breeze.

Maybe the North Shore would be willing to sponsor my next salad.