I've been working my ass off lately, and Chicago is trying to ruin everything.

Mah porch. Let me show it to you.


See? Isn't it cute? All red, white, and blue and New England-y and lobster-y?

OK, I admit that it's long and narrow, and since the nice new wicker sofa is placed almost exactly opposite the old beat-up futon frame (with the very faded denim futon cover) it looks like a railroad car. An extremely patriotic one.

But I wanted a porch that says "Poppy isn't from around here. Poppy hails from the Land o' Lobster. Poppy and Mr. Buxom spent their honeymoon on Nantucket."


I thought I'd show Chicago my New England roots, and what better way than to order a whole porch full of stuff from L. L. Bean? Right? But now Chicago has decided I'm some kind of uppity New Englander, and wants to ruin my good times. At least, I think that's what's up.

So Chicago, let's get this out in the open, shall we? I'm ready for some warm weather. Those pictures of the Pimm's Cup and tequila-on-the-rocks-with-a-wedge-of-lime that I posted last Friday because it was 80 degrees and sunny? A blip on the radar. The next day it was pouring rain and 45 degrees. I know this because I got frostbite on my toes when I wore flipflops to the garden center to pick out pansies and hydrangeas.


Chicago, I have been very patient with you. But my porch is ready. The yard has had its spring clean up. The new deck is built, and I don't think I'm being too high on myself when I say that it's awesome. My containers are almost filled. The new umbrellas and chair pads are pretty much ordered (OK, I'm still debating between brown and black as the major color scheme.)


In short, I have put a lot of work into creating a nice, Martha-Stewart-esque gorgeous summer lifestyle, and Chicago? You are not cooperating AT ALL.


I want the kind of weather that will have me forgetting about the existence of red wine, fires in my fireplace, and microfiber lap robes. It's almost May, Chicago. I don't think that's too much to ask.

Instead, you tease me with one gorgeous 80 degree day, and then you go all tweenaged girl on me--sunny one minute, stormy the next. You blow hot, you blow cold, and I am sick of this behavior, missy.


Come on, Chicago. You can do better than this. I know you can. After all, you're the home town of Michelle Obama's arms.