reality check!

Last night, like other Wednesday nights for the last 6 months, I went to my Accounting class prepared for a dull evening of P/E ratios and earnings reports. I settled into the ridiculously sloping desk/chair apparatus, balanced my scalding hot cup of tea on the ridiculous slope, and dug out a notebook. (Don't worry. No one gets scalded with the tea.)

Twenty minutes later, the professor, some accounting guy named Ed, is full swing into describing capital budgets and net income increasing over five years and blah blah blah, when he says, "Oh, and a bit of a personal question. I know there are two Stephanies in this class. Did one of you go to ---- Academy?"

With a look of concern and befuddlement, I timidly raised my hand. Why does my professor know where I went to high school? Why is he asking me in the middle of capital budgets?

"Oh!" he said. "My son goes there."

"Oh?!" I said. "How bizarre." Around me, my classmates giggled and whispered "small world" to one another.

"What year did you graduate?" Ed asked me.

"Uh...1997."

"Oh, well my son's a senior." Ed nodded and smiled, and I returned the vague gesture, acknowledging a shared moment. And although our chat ended there, and Ed returned to dividend yields, I had the following panic-stricken inner monologue:

1997. 1997. 2005. My god. I'm about to have a 10-year reunion. But I just went to the 5-year. How can it be 10 already? My god. I'll be 28 then. I always thought by 28 and my 10-year reunion I'd be somewhere. I thought I'd show up to the reunion with my husband and kids in tow. But that clearly isn't gonna happen. I mean, it's only 2 years away, and I don't even have boyfriend. I'm not even dating anyone. I don't have time! It's highly unlikely that I'm going to find someone, like them, fall in love with them, marry them, and bear their children in the next 2 years. I mean, I guess it's possible, especially considering that everyone else in my family is getting married based on an average relationship time of about 17 minutes. So 2 years isn't all that crazy. But god. 2007! 28 years old! Where is the time going? What am I doing?
AUGH!

When I snapped to, Ed had moved on to debt ratios, but I was stuck on some ratios of my own. In a few weeks, I'll be 26, which means I have to round up, so it's the same as 30. I'll spend the next 4 years being 30. In my mind, I'm still 19 or 20, just sort of floundering around trying to get some footing in this world. I just started life over in New York, I'm still broke, I'm back in school, my job blows, and it turns out men in New York also have their thumbs up their asses. I guess some things never change. And I guess that I'm not going to have the luxury apartment with the giant wall of books and charming spiral staircase that I share with my fantastically handsome husband and our brilliant crew of children--not yet. Maybe hoping for all that by 28 was silly. Maybe for my 15-year reunion. Maybe when I'm 33.

My god. I'm practically 40.

i heart green.

Every year about this time (if not sooner), I would have the depressing and heart-to-heart conversation at high decibels with my friend Anne Marie about how much we hate winter. Being prisoners of a cubicle jungle, the most we could do was stare at pictures of the tropical beaches calendar I gave her for Christmas, or do some fantasy vacation shopping online and look at all the pretty palm trees. Usually it sounded something like this:

Me (whining, throwing body around like a 3-year old): Anne Marie, I HATE THIS SNOW!

Anne Marie: I KNOW!! I can't take it anymore! I'm moving to Barbados.

Me: I just can't even look out the windows anymore. Everything is bleckh. Crappy grey roads. Crappy grey skies. Crappy grey snow. I hate when even the SNOW is dirty!

Anne Marie: I KNOW!! And my van! It's disGUSting from all the salt.

Me: I can't take it anymore. I am so depressed, I just stare at the walls.

Anne Marie: I'm telling you, it's that disease. We have the S.A.D. - the Seasonal Affective Disorder. Look. (furious typing into google) SEE. It's REAL.

Me: I KNOW it's real. I KNOW I have it. I totally have it.

Anne Marie: We need to buy these special lamps. They cost like thousands of dollars but they are so bright they act like the sun. Ugh, I would totally sit in my lawn chair in front of that thing. With a mudslide. THAT would make me feel better.

Me: But I can't afford a thousand-dollar lamp. Our insurance won't cover it. Ugh. I'll just go buy a plant. I need something GREEN.

Anne Marie: GREEN. I KNOW!! Just SOME sign of LIFE. My GOD! I'm moving to Barbados.

So like I said, this conversation happens pretty much every year...except this year. Because I don't work with Anne Marie anymore. (But, that was a pretty good simulation and I feel like I was there, whining, with Barb laughing at us from across the way.)

Anyhow, all this was a backdrop for the fact that I just "came to" a few minutes ago and realized that I was staring at--and possibly fondling--my new green plant for at least 5 minutes. A few weeks ago, I started to get that whiny itch again, and realized I had no greenery in my apartment. My one plant is at work, where I talk to it and tend to it regularly, and it grows smilingly in the fluorescence...unlike we humans.

So on a recent shopping trip, I made it my mission--nay, my life's purpose--to find a good, healthy, draw-me-out-of-depression little green plant. I picked through various shapes and sizes, short ones and tall ones, fat ones and skinny ones, prickly ones and...not prickly ones, until finally, my plant found ME.

"Oh THERE you are my beautiful darling!" I shouted as I ran open-armed to my lovely. I stroked and caressed its delicate stalks, letting the fair leaves tickle my fingertips. We also shopped around for the new perfect pot, requiring that it too must be vibrant and colorful and big enough for my new friend to grow beyond our wildest expectations.

And I took home the plant and the pot, got dirty with the soil, and proudly mounted the fantastic creature on my kitchen table, tall and leafy and GREEN!! Oh sweet greenness how I've longed for you!!

And today, after looking out the window at the drab post-snowstorm mess down below: the crappy grey roads, crappy grey skies, crappy grey snow, I retreat back to my ferny friend and get lost in my own private palm tree in my own little Upper East Side studio oasis.

things i'll never give up.

Once again, it is the lenten season. And I, being the devout atheist that I am, decided to take this opportunity to realize those precious things in life that I will never willingly give up. Not even on an experimental basis.

#1) Coca-cola. I LOVE COKE. Nothing says "refreshment" and "wake up" like the hiss of a newly opened bottle or the crack of a newly opened can of Coke. I know some people do coffee, some do yoga. But me? Coke, all the way. And I'm not talking any diet or vanilla crap either. We're talking red label, no funky flavors. Just straight up, proper Coke. It's delicious and it goes with just about everything. Pizza? and Coke. Cheese? and Coke. Peanut butter? and Coke. Chocolate chip cookie dough? and Coke. Friday afternoon? and Coke. Mmm, I love my Coke.

#2) Cheese. I LOVE CHEESE. At any given point in time, one could find a minimum of 8 kinds of cheese in my fridge. My love of cheese started very young with simple (white) American and string cheese. As I got older, and started living with other cheese-addicted persons, I started to appreciate the slightly finer cheeses, like fresh mozzarella, dubliner, jarlsberg, or a variety of others whose enzymes give me hives, but which I eat anyway because the immensely satisfying taste is worth the chance of death.

#3) Taking showers. (Thank god, right?) No seriously. I LOVE taking showers. I could spend the whole day hypnotized by the hot water of a good shower. Some people have an aversion to bathing, or are just lazy. "Ugh, I have to take a shower." "Ew, I haven't bathed in four days." No way baby. Not me. Minimum of one per day. Somedays 2 or 3, depending on my activities. I know this has a lot to do with the wild mane of hair upon my head, which needs to be washed often to prevent headaches (it's true, shut up), but seriously...me likey hot water.

#4) Nose picking. Have your laughs. Go ahead. Say "Eww...she's gross!" But I know the truth. Everybody does it. I'm just not afraid to admit it. (And I could name a few others who would too.) Nose picking is such an incredibly satisfying experience. Especially in New York, where the air conditions often leave you with a noseful of black crunchy stuff. Do I want that up there? Hell no. So in I go, rounding up the painfully hard boogers to enhance my clean breathing passages. I don't like picking soft boogies; that's what tissues are for. But hard crunchy boogs need a finger. As soon as I feel something getting solid up there, I go in for it. Shamelessly. Not in public, of course. But if I have known you for more than, say, two months, and we are in a private place, be prepared to see me pick.

#5) Sleep. Some people in this world are ambitious and restless, and aren't satisfied unless they are active. I am not one of them. I will choose sleep over most activities, with the exception of consuming coke or cheese, showering, or picking my nose. Sleep is a wonderful, wonderful thing. Sleep is something I am always dreaming about during my waking hours. I imagine the puffy comfort of my bed, the perfect plumpness of my pillows, and the undisturbed hours that pass while I lie in my blissful unconscious state. And really, bed optional I say. Sleep on the beach, the grass, a hammock, the couch, the floor, wherever! Just sleep...sleep......sleep.....zzzz...

adding insult to injury. literally.

So, yesterday, like every other day, I went to the vending machine upstairs for my morning can of cranberry juice. But this time, the vending machine hated me, and refused to take my dollar bill. I didn't fret much because 5 feet to the right is a change machine. But the change machine also refused to take my dollar bill. So, pissed off and thirsty, I left the kitchen.

I used my high-tech proximity card to open the door to the stairs back down to my floor. It's one of those split stairwells, with 6 or 7 stairs, then a landing, then 6 or 7 more stairs, then the floor. I was still fussing about my juice when it became frighteningly obvious that one of my feet was aborting the stair-descending process.

Presumably, the heel of my shoe was caught in the cuff of the opposite pant leg, but I'm not really sure what happened. But I wiggled my foot and tried to plant it on a step while exercising a death grip on the railing. I did get my foot free, but thanks to gravity and the inertia I already had going down the stairs, I totally missed the step, and next thing I know, I'm going down, aiming head-first for the wall that encases the landing halfway down the stairs.

With my second thunderous crash in about a week, I managed to prevent any major head injuries by bracing the wall with my hands and landing on my knee. Pain was instant, as was humiliation. At first I didn't move at all, hoping that if I was very still and didn't whimper, people would think someone just dropped a very large box, and wouldn't come looking. The plan worked, and I eventually stood back up, re-attached my flopping traitor shoe, and hobbled down the second half of the staircase attempting to look as casual, normal, and non-chalant as possible. I rehearsed my schpeal: "Me? Fall down the stairs at work? No, you must have just heard that man who just dropped a very large box. Yes, I helped him pick everything up on my way up to get my juice."

Back at my desk, I pulled up my pant leg to see instant bruising and swelling around me knee. It looked very nice next to the bruising from the Fire Alarm Incident. I popped some Advil, and whined all afternoon about how much it hurt. (I also embraced the irony, or perhaps I should say premonition, over predicting something like this happening YEARS ago.)

A few hours later, I had to go to the doctor. As doctors tend to do (and much to the continual amusement of my sister, even now at the ripe age of 22), she wanted to test the reflexes in my legs. Before I could think, she pulled back and slammed that little rubber triangle hammer...right into my bruise. My leg twitched little--the rest of me twitched a lot, and I groaned in attempt to stifle the huge profanity that was about to fly out of my mouth.

In the end, I laughed about it. I mean, it could have been worse. What if I'd gotten my juice and the compressed beverage can knocked me in the head when I tumbled? Or, what if had happened earlier when I was showing the new guy where the kitchen was? Or what if I'd fallen down the second half of the staircase, and rolled right into the main hallway in front of half the office? That would have REALLY sucked. So I guess in the end, a little rubber triangle hammer ain't the biggest problem. But it still hurt.

again with the chocolates and flowers??

It's Valentine's Day Eve, and I'm already grumping about it. V-day is one of those "holidays" that I dislike immensely and hope to ignore despite the multiple millions of dollars that are spent by "the industry" to flaunt it and aim it down my throat in the hopes of making me gag.

A lot of people say to me, "You just don't like Valentine's Day because you're single." Usually, in response to that, I say something eloquent and articulate along the lines of "Go fuck yourself." No, that's not why I don't like it. And while that reason may not exactly help the situation, it sure isn't a primary reason. Let me explain.

There have been years where, when good ol' Saint Valentine came knocking upon our doors with his little cherubs and red-hearted arrows, I have been not single. And even in those years, the only Valentines I ever got were from my mom. (Thanks mom.) In fact, there is only one year I can recall getting anything: 1995. My best guy friend in high school gave me a mix tape whose grand finale was Dennis Leary's hit single, "Asshole." Despite this, the mix tape is still the best Valentine's gift I ever got, simply because it is the ONLY Valentine's gift I ever got...that wasn't from my mom. So really, I've had 9 years of dashed expectations that make me the Realist that I am today.

So I don't expect much. Scratch that...I don't expect anything. A card would put me into shock. Flowers--cardiac arrest. Like last Friday, I went to get a sandwich for lunch. And the guy at the deli gave me and one of my friends each a small stalk of flowers from a vase. I squealed with joy at the kindness of strangers (who likely just want my return business), and giggled even though big burly construction workers were trying to sweet talk my flowers away from me. "No way!" I told them through their reflective safety vests. "These are the only flowers I'm gonna get! Back off!" I may, however, return to that same deli tomorrow and see if I can scrounge up a box of chocolates, or perhaps some sort of marriage-for-greencard arrangement.

Anyhow, I just wanted to state, for the record, that I'm not a big fan of the highly commercialized Hallmark Holiday that we are forced to reckon with each year on February 14th. This year, I did send one e-valentine to one person, and it was only because it contained a very cute puppy (another industry marketing ploy). Otherwise, I'm really only in it for the next-day half-off chocolate sales.

That, and the card from my mom. (Thanks mom.)

that's gonna leave a mark.

This story begins several days ago while I was lying on my bed, talking to a friend in the dark. As I stared off into space, a quick green flash of light caught my eye.

"What was that?" I asked.

"What was what?" he responded. I sat up and looked around, and it happened again.

"Oooh, right there! It came from there!" I said excitedly. Then I realized there was a smoke alarm on the wall. "That's weird. I don't ever remember seeing that there before."

"Well, every apartment has to have one," he said.

"Yes, and mine did. Over THERE," I said, pointing to the empty ring of mounted plastic in the kitchen. "I took it down because it went off EVERY time I turned on the oven. It's in the silverware drawer."

"You know you're not supposed to--"

"I KNOW I'm not supposed to take it down. But EVERY TIME I TURNED ON THE OVEN!! What's the point of having a device if it's over-sensitive to the point that people dismantle them?"

Soon after this conversation/argument, my friend left. And as I shut and locked the door, I turned around to see right there, upon the countertop, a new, sealed-in-plastic operating manual for a combination smoke/carbon monoxide detector.

"Mother fuckers," I said to no one in particular. This meant that someone had been in my apartment without my permission NOR my knowledge, which was not only illegal but also gave access to all my bras and underwear scattered on the floor. This did NOT make me happy, and I spent the night wondering if someone was going to jump out from a closet, except there's only one closet and definitely no room to hide in it.

Now -- to the present day.

Hungry and cranky and most likely suffering PMS (yes, AGAIN), I went to the store for some groceries. Among other things like tofu, yogurt, and cheese, I bought Stouffer's French Bread Pizza, Deluxe flavor. I was so so so excited for my little french slice of heaven, covered with sausage, pepperoni, onions, mushrooms, peppers....yummmmm!!

As the instructions indicate, and as I've done a thousand times before, I microwaved the pizza for 90 seconds while the oven preheated to 450°. I popped in the pizza, checked the time, and wandered away from the kitchen.

When I checked my pizza, it was a little crispy, but I didn't mind. I pulled it out of the oven and was examining the cheesy goodness when--

BEEEEEEEEEEP! BEEEEEEEEEEEP! BEEEEEEEEEEEP! "Fire! Fire!"

In complete and utter bewilderment, I spun in circles trying to figure out who was talking to me. I crossed the apartment in a series of quick strides, wondering how on earth I was going to fan the alarm that is mounted just inches away from my 10-foot ceiling. I looked around at my feet and, with the oven mitt still on my hand, grabbed a thick catalog while snapping the lid on my giant 18-gallon Rubbermaid container of clothing. "Fire! Fire!" some woman's voice announced.

I put my weight on the container, knowing it wouldn't hold me for long. But to my surprise it supported me as I waved the giant catalog over my head, begging the beeping woman to stop announcing my "fire" to the five boroughs. It wouldn't stop, it just wouldn't stop, and as I wondered what my neighbors were thinking....the inevitable happened.

POP! The Rubbermaid lid let go and fell into its container, dropping me a foot and a half to the ground. I bounced off the wall, taking my very, VERY treasured script of handmade Chinese calligraphy from college down off the wall as I went. Then, with a giant thunderous CRASH, the Rubbermaid tipped to the side and shot out, smashing into my water-filled humidifier and sending it careening -- in pieces -- across the floor. Vaguely aware of pain on the left side of my rib cage, I scrambled back to my feet and went to the kitchen for a chair.

The chairs are cheap and chinsey (but such a bargain!) and not made to withstand the weight of a crazy woman frantically waving a thick catalog at a chirping, speaking fire alarm. (By the way, WHEN did they start TALKING??) I lined up the chair, but first stopped to open the window as much as possible -- which was only a few more inches than its already open state. "Fire! Fire!" BEEEEEEEEEEEP!

Back on the chair, I stood and fanned and fanned and fanned. I wondered if I could reach the device, but suspected extending myself that far would make another spill not just likely, but deserved. I wished I'd looked at the manual so I knew how to shut this thing the fuck up. And I fanned and fanned and fanned, my head now inches away from the million-decibel shrieker, until finally...it stopped.

Sh.

Deep breath.

I rested my arms a second before fanning some more in the hopes the squawky bitch wouldn't start up again. I jumped off the chair to open the other window, landing in a giant puddle of water left behind my scattered humidifier, which was now actually under the bed. I fanned a few minutes more before finally relenting, stepping down so I could eat the goddamned pizza before it was slightly crispy AND cold.

As I chewed my first delicious-but-not-worth-the-trouble bite, I walked in front of the mirror and lifted my shirt. Two parallel red marks, each 6-8 inches long, wrapped around my rib cage, and another, much smaller, at the base of my neck. There's also a bruise on my hand. I don't know what I hit, but I hit something, and all because some dirty asshole let himself in to install a new, state-required smoke alarm, whose batteries, I assure you, are about to come out.

nyc is unkind to the decision-making-challenged.

I have been staring at my computer screen for I'd say about 15 minutes now. The reason? I can't decide what I want for lunch. I have a natural inability to make these kinds of decisions, so it's not that it's surprising. It's that it keeps getting worse.

Back in Boston, we had a cafeteria in our company's building. The food sucked and was completely over-priced, but usually my biggest decision was "do I want fries or onion rings." (Coincidentally, this was also the most exciting decision, because it meant we had an option other than fries, which was very, very exciting.)

Other days, when I'd go out to lunch, it was a little harder. Barb and I would clamor into the car, and hem and haw over where to go, hoping we'd come up with an idea before the light turned green. On special occasions, one of us would be craving something, and say something like "I want honey mustard. Let's go to Friendly's!" But in the majority of cases, I'd just yell out "Go left!" or "Go right!" and we'd pick an option from that part of town, narrowing it down only as we drove past our options, saying "I guess not Papa Gino's...not Johnny Rockets." But even then, it was HARD. I never knew what I wanted, and that was with about 10 or 12 strong lunch options to choose from.

Now imagine that I have about 10 or 12 HUNDRED lunch options to choose from. Chinese, Mexican, Korean, Afghan, Indian, Japanese, pizza, sandwiches, bagels, and on and on and on. And even if I narrow it down to, say, pizza, I then have to decide which of the 47 nearby pizza shops I want my slices from: the Italian place, the Greek place, the Kosher place, the place with seating or without, the place across the street or 3 blocks away, the one with the free soda or the one with extra cheese. I end up so completely overwhelmed that instead of choosing ANY of them to silence and satiate the screaming hunger from my stomach, I sit here staring at the walls.

In traditional Barb's-car-like style, I usually just wander out the door, and turn left, or right, or go straight, and eventually say "oh. I guess I'll go here. again. or for the first time," which is really only the beginning. Because then I have to deal with picking something from the menu...

it was a good idea at the time.

This morning the sun was up and the birds were chirping (or cooing, as pigeons do). It was one of those mid-winter days where the temperature rose up and above the recent chilly single digits, with hopes of high 30s in the forecast. This, my friends, is a skirt day.

So I showered, dried my hair, and trotted around happily as if it were a spring day in April. I dug out a black skirt, some black tights for my legs, and then.....off to the closet.

I know you think this is going very girlie very quickly. And you're right. Because when I got to the closet I pulled out an aqua blue sweater. For funky layering purposes, I tossed a pink shirt under it. And when I was almost ready to go, I opted for some pink shoes - same color as the shirt. How CUTE!!

Until I got to work. Now I am afraid that I'm one jelly bracelet away from a bad 80s throwback. If I maybe put my hair in a scary ponytail on the side of my head, and added some lace gloves, I really think some fashion magazine photographer would chase me down the street for their "Don't!" section. Or maybe those "What NOT to Wear" people would jump on me from their perch upon some fire escape and hose me down.

Truthfully, I think I'm okay. I am right on the verge of being TOO 80s. But I can't help it. I mean...how do you unlearn something like that? It's like my child self was digging through the closet looking for "radical" color combinations, but instead came out with something that, like, totally makes me want to gag myself with a silver spoon!

Watch out Debbie Gibson. Here I come.

two random stories

Today's blog is two random stories that have nothing to do with one another except that they happened around me.

#1) Bike Delivery Guy

The other night I was walking home from the laundromat with my bundle hoisted up on my shoulder. I teetered on the narrow sidewalk, trying not to slip on the frozen chunks of snow-ice. When I looked up, the light was about to change, so I hurried across the street to beat the traffic.

The problem with trying to beat the light in the winter time is that when you do get across the street, there may or may not be a place for you to leap from the street to the sidewalk. Thanks to all this frozen white crap, walking space is severely limited. So when you cross against traffic, and cars come speeding at you, there is a possibility that you may actually have to hurdle a snow mound to get to safety.

So I got lucky, and my bundle of clothes and I scurried to safety as a man behind me leapt over the snow. However, simultaneously, a bike delivery guy entered the scene on his ricket old bike with the big metal basket on front, holding food. The bike delivery guy was also trying to beat traffic. So he sped across the street, realizing at the last minute he was about to collide with another bike delivery guy. He veered sharply, and went right into a giant wintry bike-swallowing pothole. After spasmatically sticking his legs out to his sides, he pedaled again, this time aiming for the "opening" to the sidewalk, only to discover that there were people in it, including me. So without any control whatsoever, and assuming his velocity would be enough to overpower the depth of the snow, the delivery guy approached the sidewalk at a very unnatural angle. And he did, in fact, have enough velocity to overpower the snow, but...

He did not anticipate the giant steel border to the sidewalk. His front tire hit, catapulting his back tire nearly straight up into the air. Somehow, against all laws of gravity, the food stayed in the basket while the deliver guy bounced around and lost a testicle. He never let go of the bike, never fell off it, and it never hit the ground. But he had this ridiculous grin on his face, aware that he'd made a series of idiot blunders in front of a crowd--including another bike delivery guy that couldn't restrain his laughter.

#2) Really Pretty Gross.

Many mornings, depending on how on-time or late I am, I run into a dogwalker around the corner from my apartment. He usually has 8-12 big dogs, all huskies and german shepards. I often wonder how he controls such a strong pack of dogs.

This morning when I rounded the corner, the dog walker was there with his full load of 12 mighty pooches. But he wasn't walking, he was halting, pulling back on the tangled mess of leashes. I followed the taut lines to the dogs, who were all standing at attention, focusing on the same object. So I followed their gaze...to a pigeon.

The dirty disgusting pigeon was pecking along the side of a building for crumbs. I snuck by, between the dogs and the bird, fearing for my life. Over my shoulder I heard a scuffle, and the dogwalker yelling. When I turned around, it was just in time to see one of the dogs snatch up the pigeon. "Put it down! Drop it!" the dogwalker yelled.

I forced away my urge to puke, trying instead to look at the bright side: at least there's one less dirty disgusting pigeon in the world.

how do you drive this thing?

This morning I had a very difficult time getting dressed. And for once, I don't mean that in the very girlie sense of being rendered incapable of picking out which shirt to wear or which shoes work to make my ass look better. I mean it literally. Physically. In the way that a 2-year-old has a difficult time getting dressed.

Everything was just out of whack. I plugged in the iron then tripped on the cord, sending the dangerous hunk of junk crashing to the floor in the immediate direction of my naked, defenseless toes. Amusingly, my defense is to scrunch up my naked, defenseless toes, as if this will make the impact of a heavy, flat piece of metal hurt less. So at the last nanosecond, I jumped upward and away from the iron, and watched it crash to the floor leaking the water that should instead be converting itself to steam at this time.

After cleaning up the iron debacle, I walked over to my closet to pick out pieces. I then realized they were all piled in a heap on a chair in the other room, so I went back. I pulled out some not-too-bad smelling pants, and grabbed a collared shirt and a v-neck sweater. Okay. Hard girlie part is over.

I ironed the pants with a great deal of difficulty, largely due to the non-existence of an actual ironing board. Mine's a long, distorted pentagon that lays upon my bed (or other horizontal surface) and pretends to be an ironing board. It's about half as long as one of my pant legs, which means that for each pair of pants I must iron, flip, rotate, shift, and tangle myself a minimum of nine times.

Once the pants are relatively wrinkle-free, I put them on one leg at a time, but not without first doing the "clean the dirty feet" ritual, which basically involves me standing on one leg, brushing the bottom of one foot against the top of the other foot in the hopes that whatever foreign objects I've picked up between the shower and now don't make it onto the inside of my pant leg only to gross me out and tickle me later. But often this ritual is severely risky, usually during the transfer when one leg is panted, and the other foot is dirty. It requires sheer amounts of balance and coordination, neither of which I possess. So in most cases, I teeter to the left or right, which isn't too bad now that I've learned to be near to a bed or wall at the time.

Pants on (Pants!), shirt on, I'm bustling around my sweltering apartment doing hair, makeup, packing my bag, waiting until the final moment to put on my sweater so I don't, well, sweat right through it. So finally the moment comes, and I excitedly grab the sweater from its hanger, clip off its tag (while neatly maintaining the little plastic pieces for disposal so as not to step on it later and think a) my father was right and b) I have to do the dirty foot ritual again), and pull the fabric over my head.

And...stop. I stood hunched, scowling at myself in the full-length mirror, wondering how I could have gone so wrong so quickly. I double checked that my head went through the head hole, which I was pleased to see it did, even though it would have been much more amusing to tell you I stuck it through a sleeve hole. But something was happening with the way the fabric was stretching and folding, and I was tangled up beyond all recognition.

After some fancy acrobatics and contortionism, I managed to get the sweater down far enough to stick my left arm through the left sleeve hole, realizing at the last minute that the sweater sleeves were 3/4 length and my shirt was 4/4 length. (Fashion error? Or trendy layering?) so dealing with the whole one long sleeve inside another long sleeve was causing me great pain, and yet I was only halfway there.

By now, of course, my hair is at full static tilt, and I look like someone has been rubbing a balloon on my head for the last 20 minutes. I twisted, snarled, tugged, and contorted my right arm into the right sleeve, and was amazed to see in the mirror that I was still so very, very far from finished. I pulled the sweater's armpits up into place, unfurled the rolled up fabric to cover my stomach, and danced around like someone with a hive full of bees stinging their ass. But I can proudly say, after all that, I finally got the sweater on, properly, right-side in, tags in the back, and armpits properly aligned.

Later, when I undress, I am taking the whole finagled mess off in one piece, and will never wear this sweater with anything else, because frankly, I don't think I can go through that again. Not, at least, without some adult supervision.

if my lips weren't frozen, i'd bitch about the cold.

What, dare I ask, have we done to deserve this? Is it because the Red Sox finally won the world series? Or because "W" was re-inaugurated? Why, WHY has hell--and the rest of the Northeast--frozen over??

This morning, like every morning this week, I opened my eyes and peered out over the giant down comforter under which I snuggled. I could see sunlight, and hear the hiss of my radiator, but I knew that nothing good was waiting for me outside the safety of my apartment...or for that matter, my bed.

I showered and flipped on the TV to get the current temperature. I prayed that it would at LEAST be double digits. And there, beside my friend Pat Kiernan's head, it read "9°." Damn. Yesterday had been a ripe, blistering 25° and it truly felt like a heatwave. At lunch time, the temperature had sky-rocketed to 30° so I went out without my hat, which turned out to be a big, bitter mistake for my poor little ears. I would not make that mistake again today.

I bundled up in my thickest pants, six layers of shirts and sweaters, warm socks, giant boots that forbade my feet to come in contact with the frozen ground. I put on my big jacket, my hat pulled down to my eyes, my scarf wrapped around my head covering my neck and face up to--and including--my nose. I added my protective eyewear (read: sunglasses) to finalize the no-exposed-flesh routine, and then I grabbed my keys, metrocard, and mittens, and headed out the door.

The cold chomped through my 26 layers like a swarm of arctic piranhas. My eyes watered and my nose ran as I speed-walked up the hill to the subway. I breathed warm, sighful breaths into my scarf, which naturally fogged up my sunglasses, causing me to look like an idiot to other passers-by. But, their heads were wrapped in scarves and hats too, so they probably couldn't see me.

The subway entrance ahead was my salvation. I bolted down the stairs, tearing my hand free of a mitten to get (and use) my metrocard. I went downstairs to the platform, where it is almost as cold as outside do to the open grates from the sidewalks above. I was thankful that it was ONLY cold, and not snowing on the platform like it was earlier in the week.

The train came, and to my very big surprise, there were seats available. I cosied in between two grown men, and for once, appreciated the physical closeness of complete strangers. Even though we all had our shoulders curled in and hands on our laps, I felt warmer just being wedged in. And even though I'd managed to align myself in just that wrong way that causes my bra strap clip with the back of the seat, causing the little metal fasteners to grind into my spinal column, the pain was worth it--I was warm.

When I got to work, my favorite cube neighbor had whipped up some hot chocolate that was waiting for me. I poured a splash into a mug, then hissed in about a cup and a half of whipped cream. As I oohed and aahed over the warm liquid delight in front of me, someone said "I thought you were from Boston. Shouldn't you be used to this weather?"

I sipped my cocoa, and said with my sweetest "you're lucky it's friday" smile, "People seem to confuse my being USED to this weather with my actually ENJOYING it. Sure, I KNOW the cold. But that doesn't mean I want to walk around in it. And sure, I KNOW the snow, but that sure as shit doesn't mean I want to shovel it!"

That's when I realized...I don't have to. No more scraping 3 inches of ice off my windshield 4 times a day. No more digging out my car and my idiot carnie neighbors' cars just so I could clear a path to slide down the driveway backwards into traffic. No bitching about idiot SUV drivers on 128 who stopped fast and caused a rooftop of snow to cover their entire windshield, causing panic and a multi-car pileup. No more fighting with the postman over mail non-delivery because our front steps were too icy. Nope--none of it. My biggest concern is making sure I have both mittens and a good pair of boots. (And maybe some strangers to cuddle with on the train.)

mistaken identity.

Lunchtime in New York is a busy time of day. People are bustling about on their 5, 20, 40, or 80 minute lunch breaks trying to cram in errands, food, and a breath of fresh air. But there's also the delivery world, a near-silent network of delivery guys on foot and bike, whisking by you in such a blur that you barely take notice of the little white bags of food they work so frantically to deliver.

The thing with these delivery guys is, well, okay, there are a few things. One is that they are absolute maniacs on bicycles, and are in fact more likely to run you over and leave you for dead than your average taxi driver. You look left and right before crossing, but the second you step into the street a bike with a basket goes whizzing by at immeasurable speeds, missing you by mere inches, and reminding you next time to look around for more than just vehicles with headlights.

The other thing (and I do apologize for how insensitive this sounds but I swear it impacts the story) is that all delivery guys more or less look the same. They usually come from one of two broad ethnic categories: vaguely Asian or vaguely Central/South American, neither of which uses English as a first language, and often results in the same final effect: a little brown guy in a hat and jacket holding a white bag of food.

Most days (especially the overly cold, rainy, or otherwise inclement ones), when I head out for lunch, the lobby of my building is filled with these delivery fellas, a good 6-10 of them, hanging out waiting for their orderees. The orderees occasionally emerge from an elevator, cash in hand, and, overwhelmed with options and a severe lack of communication, will shout out "Gigi's?? Anyone from Gigi's??" and eager delivery guys say in broken English, "yes, I Blimpies," or "yes, Chan's heah," and so it goes until the correct food finds its owner.

So one chilly day not long ago, I was bundled up and riding the elevator down to head out for lunch. And just like any other day, I was greeted by a sea of eager faces, half-covered with hats and scarves and zippered-up jackets, each hoping I had their money so they could move on and make the next delivery. They offered out their white bags, some paper, others plastic, shouting "lady, Chinese?" or "you wait turkee sanwidge?" And like any other day, knowing they aren't waiting for me, I breeze right past them and walk out the door.

On this day, I came out the other side of the door, and snobbily ignored the smoking delivery guy on the other side. He exhaled a mouthful of cigarette smoke in my face, and when I looked up to glare, I had to do a double take. This Asian man's face, like the others, was half-covered with a hat and zippered-up jacket, and he was holding a white bag of food. But this shady-looking man in need of a haircut was not a delivery guy...he was my boss.

In one of those painful moments of realization, I gasped, choking on the second-hand smoke, and turned on my heel. "Oh. Uh. David...hi," I stumbled. But it was too late, and we both knew it. The error was made. He gave me a tight-lipped non-smile, and nodded slightly. I returned the gesture, taking it as a cue to shut up and leave, so I turned again on the same heel, and ran away. Far, far away.

And much to my surprise, I have not, as of yet, been fired.

NO FISH IN THE WORKPLACE!!!!

I propose a new policy in all places of employment that require employees to sit side-by-side separated by walls that only go a portion of the distance between the floor and the ceiling. The policy should state:

"At no time is it permissible to bring fish to the workplace, microwave the fish, or eat it at your desk. If you are seen or smelled in the act of causing a fishy smell in the workplace, it is grounds for immediate dismissal or death."

Anyone who knows me can tell you--I am NOT a fish person. If it comes from the ocean, keep it the hell away from me. As a kid, my grandfather would catch fish and send them home where my mother would cook them. I would close my bedroom door, wedge a towel under it, and run to an open window to breathe fresh non-fish-smelling air. I am NOT making this up.

So it comes as no surprise to most people that now, years later, I have a similar reaction when someone brings fish into the office. To me, this is one of the greatest offenses caused to mankind. It's among the ranks of coveting thy neighbors wife, murder, and shushing. (Yes, shushing, as in "ssssssh!") There are NO words for how horrifyingly nauseating the smell of reheated fish is to people who DON'T LIKE IT. And fish-eating folks should bear this in mind when providing us a slow death through microwaved fishery.

I bring this up because I know Anne Marie is with me on it. That, and the fact that the woman who sits near me at work (who I actually like very much) is eating fish for the second time this week. But I can't complain about it because a) she's a vegetarian and b) she's pregnant. She needs her protein. But does it have to be at my expense?? Can't she take a pill or something? I'm sitting over here with a binder clip clamping my nose shut and my head in the trash can. This is no way to live.

So, people, please. If you yourself are a fish-eater, and you find yourself bringing in a little container of it to work one day, think for a minute about the people around you. Just because your lunch smells good to YOU doesn't mean anyone else wants to smell it, lingering around the office for hours, infiltrating every nook and cranny with its rotten aroma, reviving a newfound potency every time someone opens the microwave door. You're killin' me, and many people like me who never did anything to deserve this. I don't shit at your desk, so please keep your shit away from mine...or I'll aim at you when I barf.

the real truth about PMS.

Okay fellas. Let me unlock a little portion of the PMS mystery for ya. I’m not saying it’s gonna make you feel any better but, well, whatever. Shut up and listen.

The thing about PMS is that sometimes even WE don’t know when it’s happening. Generally, if I know I’m in a particularly bitchy mood, I retreat from society and let the mood swings pass. But some days, like today, I don’t know I’m in a day-long PMS fit until I find myself calling a plastic spoon a “dirty fucking bitch” because it fell into the dirty dishwater. Appropriate anger? Probably not. Harsh, unwarranted profanity for inanimate objects is usually a good indicator of trouble.

Today was one of those fucking days for me where I hated everyone in the world, including myself. Nothing went according to plan, people kept standing me up and pissing me off, and then the little things started to absolutely break me down. It should have been obvious when I started crying while talking to my mother about her new cell phone head set. There’s nothing tearful there. No reason to be upset. Yet I was. And through a quivering voice I told her I had to go. Right now.

Or maybe the food should have tipped me off. It should have been obvious when I ate seventeen fistfuls of bite size chocolate candies in the matter of about four seconds. The carnage of brightly colored foil wrappers all around me, I paid no notice to the dozen+ snickers, rolos, and hershey’s miniatures I popped in and practically swallowed whole. Or the fact that for dinner, cooking also made me teary-eyed until I decided on “fucking eggs and bacon, because I want it, dammit.” I put cheese in the eggs, but the real clincher, which only my mother and sister could attest to, was that I put ketchup on the eggs. While this is a normal and routine condiment on eggs for a great many people, it is not so for me. If you see me applying ketchup to cheesy eggs, please, for your own safety, leave the country immediately.

This time, for some reason that defies medicine and science, I wasn’t prepared for my own PMS. I’ve been trapped in my apartment with myself for days, thanks to holidays from work and a vicious cold. Anyone unfortunate enough to come in contact with me today only heard me bitch and bitch and bitch, fusing in a single breath such statements as: “and THEN he called back and canceled on me!” with “THEN my fucking internet crapped out” with “and THEN I ate the last rolo! What the fuck! How fucking rude is that? Jesus fucking Christ, I hate myself!” To these friends, I apologize whole-heartedly. (Even to Bobo, who kept antagonizing me in his role of "he who represents all of the male species" throughout the conversation.)

So, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to go make some Special Dark Brownie mix and eat it uncooked, because it’s my fucking right as a PMS maniac, and no one is going to fucking stop me. Except maybe that dirty bitch plastic spoon.

anything but this.

So, it's 2:30 in the afternoon and I'm at the point where I would rather be anywhere but here, at my desk, in my beige cubicle, under fluorescent lights, staring at the walls.

See, I have a cold. A shitty, watery-eyes, stuffy-nose, drippy-snot, tickly-cough, achy-head, knotty-back, someone-put-me-out-of-my-misery cold. (That should be the new Nyquil slogan.) It's in full swing now, despite my being in denial about it for the last 3 days. First I blamed it on my cat allergies, then on the change in weather, then on public transportation. But...in the end, I think it was already working in my system before I left for the weekend. Ugh. Obviously it was bad enough that I made a batch of chicken soup yesterday. So it's less like denial and more like...I don't know. Something else.

Well, now I'm at work, lamenting my existence here, and debating whether to leave early and go home to sleep, or stick it out the next hour and a half and accomplish absolutely nothing like I've been doing all day. I spent the last, hm, 40 minutes or so literally just sitting here. I may have even dozed off for a bit. But eventually my hot-flash/cold-chill woke me up, I wiped my bright red nose with a tissue, and stared at the walls some more.

Then I took some Robitussin ("mo tussin!") which apparently caused some heart palpitations, which I tried to track by counting a heartbeat. I couldn't find my heart, mostly because my bra is so heavily padded that no pulse can be detected through it, so I went for my neck and counted from there instead. 31 beats in 15 seconds seems....alarming. Oh well, it'll slow down.

Still, I feel better with the Tussin than I did without. My nose is no longer spewing yellow snot, which is a nice change of pace. (Although, there was a brief moment earlier when the right nostril was spewing yellow snot and the left was spewing red. That was special.) I have cleaned up the littering of cough drop wrappers that were all over the desk, and have managed to not yet open my second box of tissue today. (Note: Duane Reade did NOT have Puffs Plus today. What the FUCK is that about?? Remind me later to send them a photograph of my bright red nose while I give them the bird.)

What is it about having a cold that makes us so helpless? I instinctively want to be on my grandmother's couch under Papa's blanket, watching the Price is Right, sipping ginger ale and eating crackers, and slurping homemade soup from the bowl delivered to me on the couch. I think, maybe, that's where I am in my mind...watching Gramma do word searches in the rocking chair, occasionally stopping to shout at Bob Barker or put a cool, damp cloth on my forehead. Maybe I AM there, and that's why I'm not here, at work, editing ridiculously boring manuscripts.

No wait. Here I am. And here's a book about manually operated plumbing systems. Damn, guess I'm at work after all. I hate when that happens.

trains, trains, trains.

Don't let anyone fool you--trains are still a backbone of transportation in this country. I traveled almost exclusively by trains from small town, MA to UES, NY yesterday, and let me tell you...it STILL sucks.

First, in Boston, I had to deal with the token booth dude. Why Boston still uses tokens is beyond me. If I had my way, I would have just swiped my MetroCard on my way through. But alas, this did not happen. And as I heard the bell ringing in Alewife, the signal that the next train is about to leave, and I tried to zig and zag around slow-moving idiots with snail-paced small children, I watched from the top of the staircase as the train pulled away. I also shot the traditional dirty "it's all your fault" look at the children to teach them a lesson.

So I got on the other train, the one that was going to sit idle for 10 more minutes before leaving the station. I had the good fortune of boarding a car with a resident drunk who, from his slumped over position, occasionally yelled in Spanish to "get moving" or in English to "fuck off." Soon there were three MBTA officers there, and by "officers" I mean average people with two-way radios and a misleading sense of authority, who started hassling the drunkard before taking away his 40-oz. bottle of spirit. To this he resisted by shouting "You assholes!" before lying back down across a row of seats and passing out.

Eventually I got to South Station, where I had to wait another 45 mins for my Amtrak train to take me to New York. Being that South Station is so well planned, I had no where to sit. So I wheeled my suitcase over to a model train display, and sat on it. ("It" being the suitcase, not the train.) I was then run into and over by a series of small children whose moron parents allowed them to run in giant circles WITH the model train, often screaming at the top of their lungs while doing so. Now, I know trains are exciting, but please people, tell your kids to sit still and shut the hell up.

Later, I boarded my train, where I nestled into my window seat and used loud music to drown out the cries of cranky children on board who were upset, I presume, that they were no longer running circles with the model train. One little boy was very quiet, but only because his portable DVD player was VERY LOUD, which helped to drown out the screaming little girl to his left. But either would have been preferable over the woman who coughed and hacked and sneezed and gurgled continuously for four and a half hours, spewing her germs across the car.

Hours later, as the train pulled into Penn Station, I made my veteran move to the front of the pack and bolted up the escalator with my suitcase on my shoulder. I ran to the subway, where I conveniently swiped my MetroCard, and boarded a car with another Standard Subway Drunkard. This one was quieter than the last, but smelled strongly of urine. I watched amusedly as he leaned lower and lower, defying all laws of gravity by keeping his face a mere 1000th of an inch off the seat--and that's while he was sleeping!!

I left the drunk to transfer trains, and spent several minutes trying to wheel my suitcase past a pair of women with two unruly children who occupied the entire width of the walkway. "Excuse me," I said to the older woman. "EXCUSE ME." When she wouldn't move, I simply bowled her over, and when she scowled at me, I simply reminded her "I said EXCUSE ME!" which, also being in English, I'm sure she did not understand. I then broke into a jog, hoping to catch the train that was waiting, but missed it, which caused me to turn around and shoot more dirty looks at the woman to remind her it was all her fault.

So, in summary, all trains still have drunks and idiots, and while I can handle a few of each on any given day, I think 6 steady hours is more than I can handle. And if anyone sees the coughing hacking sneezing gurgling woman, let me know so I can punch her in the face. I think I caught her cold.

NOW will you stop making fun?

For the last, say, 3 years, people have been making constant fun of my digital camera. I bought it in 2001, and at the time it was on sale as one of the phasing-out models. It has 1.3 megapixels, weak digital "zoom," and most importantly - it's huge, especially when compared to the spectrum of miniscule Mission Impossible spy-cam models that are out now.

Most tech saavy people, upon seeing my digital dinosaur, have a reaction like one of the following, which are direct quotes:

"Wow...what is that, a laptop?"

"What is this thing, a VCR?"

"Wow, how do you get that around? Does it have wheels?"

Okay, OKAY. Enough already!! I heard ya. Yes, my digital camera is old and big and klunky. Yes, I've been meaning to buy a new one for some time. And ya know what? Finally. FINALLY, let all the laughing end.

Today I went out to do some holiday shopping--for me. I have been struggling with getting the last few gifts on my list for other people, so I decided to make myself feel better by purchasing a new digital camera. I had sort of asked for one for Christmas but didn't get any responses from anyone, so I'm guessing/hoping no one got one. (If you did, let's talk.)

The new camera, a Sony Cybershot with 4.1 megapixels, is roughly 1/6th the size of my old camera. It has all kinds of spanky fresh new features that hadn't likely been developed in 2001 when I bought the other camera. It can do shutter bursts, zoom, and even take several minutes worth of moving pictures. I'm very excited.

All night I've been walking around taking pictures of myself and random, boring, inanimate household objects, like a spoon, or...a pen. Then I upload them to the computer so I can oooh and aaah at the huge difference in resolution. Then I go back and take more random, boring, pictures and repeat the process. Exciting nerd life I lead.

Anyhow, the point is, all you camera fun-poking assholes: BITE ME! I got a new one, okay? So back off already. Or I'll throw my old, giant, four-wheeled laptop VCR at your head. And it will hurt. Because it's so big. Shut up.

city streets at night

Last night I was walking home in the cold after warming my spirit over a glass (or pitcher) of sangria with a couple of friends. We parted ways, and I had four little blocks to walk on my own.

Almost immediately, there was a man with a dog on the sidewalk. The dog was getting into that weird, scrunched, ass-to-the-ground position that says "I'm about to shit now!" Seeing dogs shit on the sidewalk is a very common occurrence. Seeing owners pick up after them is far less frequent. But this guy--he was VERY smart.

As the dog is about to drop a load, the man slides a newspaper under the dog's ass. Now...I'm guessing this man has been doing the ol' Big City Poop Scoop for so many years that he figured out the cleanest way to get the job done. But I for one was impressed at his innovative approach, even though it required the dog's cooperation. If you tossed a newspaper at my dog while she was pooping, you'd scare the--well. She'd run away, completely freaked out, and would probably leave a trail behind her. So props to the poop man on a job well done.

Then on the next block there was a man who kept stopping other men on the street saying "Hey man, I got all this stuff to get home, and I can't carry it all. Will ya help a brutha out?" I laughed, mostly because I have been in that situation, wishing that with the right amount of eyelash batting and coy smiling, I could get some fella to help a damsel in distress. But it didn't work for me, and it sure wasn't working for this guy. "Excuse me mister," he'd kept saying. "I got all this stuff to get home...."

My biggest problem here was that I didn't see this alleged "stuff." I saw a pile of trash on the curb, but definitely no "stuff" that seemed worthwhile to not just carry home, but ask for HELP in carrying home. But before I could see how this one would end, someone else stole the show.

Picture, if you will...

It's a cold windy night in December. Your chin is tucked deep, nestled into your scarf as you try to block out the chilly draft. Your eyes water in the cold, your nose runs, and you keep your eyes on the ground as you walk briskly home. But your eyes, watery as they may be, suddenly lock onto red leather. You slowly lift up, higher, until you realize the red leather is that of a pair of thigh-high boots that cover a pair of unstable legs attached to a foul-mouthed and intoxicated hooker a few steps in front of you.

"Yoo wan sum gooooooood pussy!" she yells into the night, at no one in particular. She stumbles to the right, then back to the left, her long horrible wig swaying with each difficult step. "Ain't nobody gonna tell me ma pussy ain't good. I got GOOD pussy. Mm-hmm good pussy right here. Who wans to fuck ma goooooood pussy?"

Suppressing hysterical laughter by stifling it in my scarf, I watched as the Lady in Red staggered back and forth across the sidewalk, walking like she just spent the last three months riding a horse. She continued to mutter on to herself about good pussy before lurching head-first toward a black gate, stumbling through it, and disappearing into a building. Apparently, good pussy is available at #1823.

After that, the last block home seemed boring an uneventful, but I shouldn't complain. I had three full blocks of entertainment to distract me from the fact that I was cold and miserable. Poop, stuff, and good pussy - THAT is what makes New York great.

'tis the f'n season.

So yes. Once again, the holiday season is upon us. And once again, it is making me miserable.

Last night, in an attempt to get into the holiday spirit, I decided to try shopping for my first holiday purchases of the season--in actual stores. I'm a firm, steadfast believer that everything should be selected, paid for, and shipped from the internet, because the human element is highly overrated. But sometimes you miss out on the holiday fun that way: no holiday music, no friendly smiles, no festive lights. so I thought perhaps I should venture into the stores.

HA. I was hunting for a not-so-easy-to-find DVD, so I landed at BestBuy. As I rode down the escalator and saw the 30-person-deep check out line snaking around 4 or 5 different corners, and a voice on the PA saying "Code 1! Code 1! All available employees to the registers!" I thought maybe this was a Very Bad Idea. But I was here, and the DVDs were right around the corner, so I took a breath and jumped in.

Mayhem. Total and utter mayhem. There was no longer a sense of logic or order among either the DVDs OR the people. Idiots with giant shopping bags and backpacks clogged the aisles. Small children whined and sat in the middle of the floor. And not only could I not find what I wanted, but there was NO ONE to help me figure out if it existed. I walked up and down the 8 or 9 rows of DVDs several times, stepping over screaming tots and rolling my eyes at their parents. I never found what I was looking for, which is probably the best thing for me, because to justify standing in that long ass line to pay, I would have had to buy several hundred dollars worth of stuff.

So I left, and went home only to realize that I was losing vision in my left eye--my now standard sign that a migraine is coming. Christmas shopping gave me a MIGRAINE. So, you know what people? If you don't get something from me this year, it's because it wasn't available on the internet. I'm not going in ANY more stores this year. Christmas shopping is hazardous to my health. The surgeon general should warn you about this shit.

i am SUCH a nerd.

Okay, so, there's this weatherman in Boston that my friend Kevin told me about. He (Kevin) sent me an email that said "This guy's forecasts are right up your alley. Read it. Pants." And then there was a link to this: http://www1.whdh.com/weather/ . (Kevin didn't mean the actual day-to-day forecast, but rather the "Discussion" section further down the page.)

Now, mind you, at the time of this realization, I was actually still IN Boston. And I was quite a weather geek and was constantly telling people my interpretation of the latest doppler radar or spouting facts about the snow albedo effect or how, despite Anne Marie's doubts, it can actually snow and not make it to the ground. So when Kevin sent me this link, I put it right up into my bookmarks, and followed Pete's forecast every day. (Except when he's on vacation, which is far less fun.)

So now it has been months and months...maybe even a year since Kevin hooked me up to the hugely entertaining world of "Petey B." And although I moved to a new city, I read every day, and most times laugh hard enough to grab a snippet and send it to Kevin saying "that crazy Pete! Look what he said today!"

So yesterday I decided to email Pete, and give him a little fan mail:

Hi Pete,

I just wanted you to know that you are, as they say, da bomb. I moved to New York from Boston a few months ago, but I still check in online on a daily basis to see what kind of meteorological pop-cultural anecdote you've got up your sleeve. From pine trees wearing "pasties" to Counting Crows, because of you, I look forward to each day's forecast for a city in which I no longer live. Don't ever leave!

Your Big Apple weather fan,
Stephanie

And this morning, to my surprise, I had an email back from the great and powerful Pete:

Aw shucks Stephanie, I'm gonna turn this email red with all the blushing I'm doing. Thanks for the uplifting email. I hope to be here for a while (unless New York calls!) Best of holiday wishes!
Pete

You must understand--this email MADE MY DAY! Petey B. wrote to ME! He said my NAME! I couldn't be happier if it was from Johnny Depp, I swear. (And ya know how I feel about Johnny Depp!)

Well, naturally I forwarded the email to Kevin immediately. But my joy was so overwhelming that I simply had to share it with everyone else as well. And maybe now you all know (or have reaffirmed) that I am a complete nerd, a total weather geek, and something of a groupie. But I don't care. Long live Petey B.