“Weather dot com,” I typed into my family’s clunky IBM computer. I’m pretty sure it still had dial up. I can still hear that sound associated with two things. The first, and definitively more exciting prospect, being waiting to check my AIM messages from friends with screen names such as “cutiekatie910” or “soccergurl4eva.” Not that I could judge. I was decidedly the “dancerchick323.” The other purpose of old faithful was to check the weather. I monitored the weather with a regularity my devout Italian-American grandmother designated to her Roman Catholic faith. Sam Champion was my patron saint of sorts.  Every morning, without fail, it was me and the weather report. We had what I would classify as a sort of love affair. The contents of that website had probably the largest pull on my emotions of anything at that time in my life. My fair-weather lover could make or break me with a click. I hated it and I needed it. If Weather.com said clear skies, the coast was literally and figuratively clear. It would be a good day. This day, it said 30% chance of rain. That was my threshold. It was a no-go. Now onto the task of finding yet another excuse of why I simply must stay home.