Unlike anywhere else I've ever been, summer in Chicago happens over night, as though it sneaks into the city while most people are sleeping and paints the trees green. My neighborhood is suddenly full of people I haven't seen before because they holed up for good after snowpocolypse hit. These same people have dug out their warm weather garb and are strolling down the sidewalks in short shorts that barely cover their pale, plump, winter's booties, but we're all Midwesterners here and the bacon we eat seeps into our brains, causing a chemical reaction that makes us accept this as attractive, so we don't mind at all.
Soon North Avenue Beach will look like a little Jersey Shore with hoards of people covering up every last inch of sand so the stragglers have to lay out on the bike path. Foster Beach, on the other hand, will have plenty of room for gay picnics and doggie play dates, both of which I hope to be invited to soon. I don't know the rules about drinking on the beach, but I've always done it, and am looking forward to doing it again.
Ramona and I have been taking longer walks to enjoy the sun, and my olive skin has finally started to sport some color. I know I should be wearing sunscreen, but the first few weeks of sun feel so good that I can't bear to block it's rays. I may or may not be letting myself get a little too much sun, just so I can have that dizzy sensation at night that feels all tingly and good when I press a cold bottle of beer on my pink shoulders. I'll wear sunscreen starting in June. I swear. While I'm getting darker, Ramona's fur is turning a milk chocolate color on her back and she is losing her fluffy undercoat that kept her warm during hours of jumping in the snow.
I know it is summer because only in summer do I write silly, meandering blog entires that don't have a point. My apologies.
It's late and should be dark, but Wrigley Field is illuminating the sky, giving it a dusty rose hue. The birds are chirping.