Saturday, January 25, 2014


The Bard called about a minute after I sat down.

“I’m on the train,” I said.

“Good god, why?”

“To go to work?”

“No, no, no. Work from home today. There is no reason to try to get in to the city; it’s going to be insane.”


I got off the train and called the Boy to come get me.

And while I did do work, the rest of the day also consisted of hourly trips to the window to exclaim loudly about the wrath of nature. The snow was coming down and seemed to be very disinterested in stopping. It was January 2nd and it was a little nutty out there. Already we had accumulated about six inches, with snow piled in the yard higher than a small Shih Tzu, who was boycotting leaving the house ever againor until summer, whichever came first.

On Friday, I did manage to make it into the office, but it was cold. It was about to get colder.

“So this polar vortex thing; you know the weather on Monday is going to be 30 below.”

“I keep hearing that,” I said, as the Bard and I sat and discussed the ridiculousness that was yesterday's snow.

“I would say don’t come in, but we haven’t gotten the green light from the boss yet.”

“Well, keep me posted.” The boss was in Florida. I sympathized. Apparently by the end of the day enough people in the office had written in to express their disdain for -30 degrees Fahrenheit in enough colorful terms that the boss had relented and reported that anyone who wanted to could work from home on Monday.

The weather plan was that we would get absolutely walloped with snow on Sunday, which would then be followed by the kind of flash-freeze that could stick a mastodon in place for posterity. It would be turn-off-your-fridge-and-just-move-the-food-outside cold. The wind would be howling, polar bears would be pacing about outside the window, and with the size and consistency of the drifts, I expected glaciers to move in and restructure the landscape any minute. Welcome to real winter, or, as the Chicagoans had renamed it: Chiberia.

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