More snow. Sigh.

This has been one of the snowiest Chicago winters on record. I trudged up the hill from the train through about three or four new inches of snow, and it is still coming down, with no sign of stopping! I guess that means another snow shoveling hour tomorrow.

All in all, I am pretty lucky - there is no need to dig out my driveway to make it to work. I just have to slide down the hill (which has become even easier, thanks to my fabulous new YakTrax) and to the train. There have been times when I was able to let the snow melt before ever really needing to dig it out.

But for now, I'll just sip my tea and watch it snow. Again.

Bottles over the fence

A new quandary - how to stop the beer bottles from migrating across the fence into my yard? In summer, it was just plain annoying. Every time I'd mow the backyard, I'd scoop up the assorted candy wrappers and flamin' hot Cheetos bags from my yard. For awhile, when it first got cold, it was like the litterbugs had fled to the inside of their crappy apartment building.

Then, one day about a week ago, while brushing my teeth and looking down into my backyard, I spied a beer bottle smack dab in the middle of my backyard, in the snow. It was almost artistic. While leaving a bit later, I remembered it, and my boyfriend tossed it back over the fence into the yard - heck, not even a yard, but just asphalt parking lot - for the four-unit apartment building next door. I chastised him and said it should be recycled, but I did agree there was a point to be made.

Then, Sunday morning, I noticed another beer bottle (the same one?) in my backyard. I forgot about it every time I left the house, until Monday morning, while in the rush to leave for work.

Yep, there are now three empty beer bottles in my backyard.

I'm torn. If I recycle them in my own cans, yes, it removes the litter. If I toss them back over, does it send a message? What I just don't understand is why - the parking lot in question has all four garbage cans and four recycle bins within 10 feet of where the bottles enter my property. I always wonder who taught litterers that it's okay to leave your trash in someone's yard or, in the case of my walk to the train, along the side of the road.

If I see the friendly landlord again, I'll mention it to him. Though I guess in the greater scheme of things, the bottles aren't nearly as bad as the crack dealers he used to rent to.

A Girly License to Kill?

Sure, we've got the aforementioned pink tools, but at some point, suburban homeowners must consider something that's illegal in the city. That's right, I'm talking pink firearms.

I've been relatively lucky when it comes to pests. (Insert knock on wood.) Other than a couple cockroaches - oh, and the bat - my cat has happily tended to my pest control needs. She's particularly fond of ladybugs.

But plenty of suburbanites face far greater problems. Growing up, our cedar-sided house was attacked by woodpeckers. Squirrels built a nest in the attic above my parents' room. Chipmunks ran amok, digging hole after hole after hole in the yard. My boss spent last summer chasing rabbits away from his plants.

Eventually, many suburban homeowners stop playing nice and pull out the big guns. More precisely, they rely on air rifles, bb guns and related light firearms to rid themselves of the suburban menace.

Which brings me back to the pink rifle available through Pyramid Air.

Who is the target market? Target shooting girls? Homeowner girls? The description exudes energy and pep:

Think pink! Pink guns are the hottest trend. They're the surest way to get girls interested in the shooting sports. Get one for the girl in your family, and you'll be surprised how much she loves shooting! If you're a gun collector, you need to get this one! It's sure to become a collectible!

But would the pink air rifle take out a squirrel if need be?

Ms. Fix-It? Why not?

Is it really so hard to comprehend women who can do their own repairs? I can wield a caulk gun like one of the boys with no real trouble, and so can many of my female friends. Most of them are very involved in the care of their homes, beyond the traditional kitchen and cleaning roles. Among my friends, at least, this still holds true even when they're married or otherwise paired off: women can fix things and do many of the repairs themselves.

The Wall Street Journal's Kay Hymowitz noticed this trend in the guise of new products touting themselves as more female-friendly, from pink tool belts to pink hack-saws. As she explains:

It's not hard to see what's driving the fad: Women are increasingly home alone and emboldened. Perhaps the largest group eager to seize the pink hammer is single young women. Many of today's young women are marrying well into their 20s; an increasing number are waiting until their 30s. But they often aren't waiting for that gold band before they commit to a house or condo. The National Association of Realtors reports that in 2006 single women made up 22% of the U.S. real-estate market; the median age for first-time single female buyers was 32. It helps that having grown up with computers, cellphones and iPods, this you-go-girl! generation doesn't look at small machinery the way Barbie looked at math. These women are not only gung-ho about buying a home on their own dime; they're ready to lay the tile and patch the drywall too.

Well, yes, that's true. But we don't need special pink tools to do it. When I moved into my first apartment, my mom gave me a small toolbox filled with the basics - a couple screwdrivers, a hammer to hang pictures, basic pliers. Around each one, she had tied a pink ribbon, and the bottom of my little red toolbox was lined in pink satin. It was very cute.

Since then, most of those original tools have been replaced by sturdier versions to meet their big-girl roles. The ribbons fell off pretty quickly, and the little red box has been replaced by Big Red as new needs have merited things I would have never thought of back in that dark little studio, like an outlet tester.

But I must say, I do still use that little hammer, since its lighter weight is easier to heft, especially when up on a ladder. So perhaps there's a market for these girly tools after all.

What's that noise?

My last apartment was in the attic of an 1890s Victorian house. When the wind blew, the house shook and rocked back and forth. It creaked and groaned as it settled or when big trucks drove by. But it never really bothered me.

Now my cat makes the dining room floor creak. New hairline cracks appear occasionally - or were they always there and I just never noticed? Has that door always been slightly crooked?

Yes, yes, of course I had a home inspector give the place a good once-over before I bought. The house got a clean bill of health with only a couple very minor problems that are well par for the course for a home built in the 1920s. But now that it's my house and I'm responsible for anything that might go wrong - and its resale value - the little things worry me. Is that little crack indicative of a much bigger problem? Is it warning of structural failure? Will it cost thousands to fix?

Or is it truly nothing?

I think growing up in a relatively new house - built in the 70s - is partially responsible for this neurosis. The house hadn't had decades to settle and show its age. With routine maintenance, nothing ever really broke. Sure, we had a new roof put on when I was in high school and I remember having the electrical upgraded, but everything else was merely cosmetic and entailed replacing the ugly harvest gold appliances and fixtures.

Even though I worry about the age and health of my old house, I do love it. I looked at dozens of houses online and in person during my hunt, and the search reaffirmed my love for the older house, with charming woodwork and built-in cabinetry. Plus, I'm not in a neighborhood filled with identical beige cookie cutter houses. On one side, there's an 1860s yellow house with purple and green trim. My wonderful neighbors on the other side live in a mint green house built around 1900.

But still, when it's late and the house is quiet, save for the ticking of the clock, I wonder if that crack on the living room ceiling has always been there.