Weatherfolks.

Chicago weatherfolks don't have a clue.

There are only two seasons in Chicago: winter and not-winter. We have possibly the most finnicky weather in the United States and for our weatherfolks, it really is just a guessing game. I know that most people picture Chicago as being this cold, snowy winter wonderland from about November-March. Which, yes, it can be. Even when I was born, we were experiencing epic negative degree temperatures. On my birth day, the high temp was a whopping 19 degrees with the wind chill making it about -15. There have been many a snowstorms that, as a school child, I welcomed with open arms because in Catholic school, our school closings were more frequent than the public school kids, who were forced to make it to school come hell or 2-ft of snow. And some years, we start off January with highs in the 50's, forcing people to become slightly dumb and leave their houses in shorts and flip flops.

After living here for a few years (or 26), you just know. You know that maybe we'll get massive snowstorms, and maybe we won't. It doesn't happen every year, but when it does we're just not all that surprised. And when it doesn't, we still wouldn't be so surprised...if it wasn't for the bumbling weather crew.

Every year, before the first real snowfall, the news stations have this insatiable urge to feature shovel-selling stores and snow plow companies preparing for the momentus event, as if every year was our first time. And so we watch, with wide eyes, wondering "well gee, exactly how much snow are we getting?" Then the weatherfolks continue with their forecast, using their powerful magical fortune-telling weather machine to predict record-breaking snow, possibly 10 inches overnight. This is on the 10pm news. I look out the window; the sky looks perfectly clear. So I figure, maybe when I wake up, I'll find myself in a winter wonderland.

And so the next day comes. I hop out of bed, hoping for an excuse to stay indoors and look out the window. I see snow. But I don't see these massive amounts that were predicted. Angry for answers, I flip on the television and my weatherfolks are telling me: "oh, the heavy snow passed over us and headed straight to Pennsylvania." Apparently the big bad weather machine couldn't see that.

It's the lake. The lake likes to play cruel jokes on us Chicagoans, using its mighty winds to either blow the snow far away or dumps avalanches on us. Forget a Weather Machine; what we need here is a Lake Whisperer, someone to kind of soften Mr. Lake Michigan up, get him to open up about why he just can't make up his mind about the weather.

The weather here definitely keeps folks on their toes (and keeps those same toes frozen). But we get through the winter and endure the Lake's games for the sweet sweet non-winter payoff: hot, humid, sticky-sweat mid-year temps during the most crowded tourist-packed street festivals. But you won't catch me there. I'll be next to my frienemy, Mr. Lake Michigan, playing kiss-and-make-up as I splash around in his crystal blue belly.