Foggy with a Chance of Fog

When Sandburg talked about the Chicago fog coming in on “little cat feet,” he certainly wasn’t taking my two thumping cats into consideration. They may both weigh under ten pounds each, but they rampage around the apartment like two over-fed fullbacks who haven’t seen the business end of a razor since birth.
Anyway.
Fog.
I love it. When we were getting ready to move out here, a bunch of Boston friends kept reminding us, “But you’re going to a city where there’s FOG.”
Like that was a big deterrent or something.
I kept telling them that I’ve never lived in a place that actually had fog in the forecast and I was psyched. I told them it’s the same reason why Yorkshire and Whitby are two of my favorite spots in England. It’s all about atmosphere, baby. In fact, I waxed so rhapfogdic that the Bostonians finally stopped bringing up the entire topic due to bouts of extreme nausea brought on by sour grapes.
If I can’t have my beloved snow to make a night in cozy then the fog rolling over Alamo Square Park, whiting out the buildings a block away will do just fine.

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