W.C.

No, it does not stand for “water closet”. Although it could. Although it does, elsewhere. Like on the door to the rest room at a certain whimsical tea parlor I have been known to frequent.
And it does not refer to funny fella (and red-nosed sot) W.C. Fields. No. (And please, if you love me at all, refrain from doing an impression of him now. Really. I’ll know if you’re doing it. I’ll hear it, no matter where you are. And hate you.)
It does not stand for or refer to any hilarious two-word combinations you’re bound to come up with, either. (And if you dared to do a W.C. Fields impression, I hope you’re unable to sleep because for some reason now you can’t stop thinking of all the knee-slapping possibilities.)
No, W.C. here stands for none other than Wind Chill. As in that thing that makes it “feel like” a temperature lower than what it really is. As in that wretch who can take an ordinary wintry 25 degrees and whip it into a frigid, breath-freezing frenzy that will leave you cursing gods you don’t believe in and inventing others so you’ll have someone to blame.
So, anyway, if I don’t write anything here for the rest of the week, it’s because I live in an experimental open-air apartment environment, where the lack of protection from the subnormal temperatures (with wind chill!) leaves me with assicles hanging from my pants, a victim of all the vagaries that that caftan-wearing, mustache-bleaching, dry-elbowed harridan Mother Nature has to fling and sling my way. And here you thought I lived on Easy Street, and that I wouldn’t come out and play online because I was otherwise occupied, doing stuff like shopping at Anthropologie and Bloomingdale’s, buying a photo printer, and lunching like a lady.
Oh, the chill of it all!