You Give Me Fever.

You know when you're on the subway, packed in way too tightly on your morning commute, and since you hear the people around you sniffling, you keep your gloves on while holding the pole? You know when you glance around you and try to determine the best position to put your face so those pesky germs won't jump from the snifflers onto you? And then, after all the precautions, and all the hand sanitizer and breathing through your nose (those nose hairs are supposed to filter out germs, right?), you see it all go to waste in the course of a half-second, when the man standing next to you sneezes right onto your face? I know you know what I'm talking about. It can be Mister Business Suit standing over there reading his Wall Street Journal just as easily as it can be Mister Camo Pants Hanging Off His Butt rocking out to his ipod. (I should note here that it could also be that woman in my office who has been coughing for a week straight and touching MY copy machine, MY elevator buttons, and MY water cooler, but I don't want to blame her.) Whomever it was, I am now paying the price for going out in public without my breathing mask. Lesson learned.

Tonight I noticed something that made coming home from work at 930pm on a Wednesday much more tolerable than it otherwise would have been. I saw Christmas lights on balconies. The city looks so pretty outside a cab window when there are Christmas lights on balconies. (By the way, doesn't that sound like the beginning of a terrific song? "Colored lights on bal-co-nies, eager kids say "Santa, please" - these are just a few of my favorite Christmas mem-o-ries..." Okay, fine, so I'll stick to writing heartfelt rock ballads and acoustic rants instead of Christmas carols.) Thank you, Christian folk of Manhattan, for making me loathe leaving the office late on a Wednesday night a tad less.

I was in Boston this past weekend, walking up the street to Small Asian Friend's apartment, wearing my super cool white knit winter hat (if you have seen me at all this winter, you know the one) when something noteworthy occurred. I give you permission to laugh as I recount the (what Small Asian Friend has termed) "Beth Luck" which befell me. As we walked under a tree (which was decorated so delightfully for Christmas, I should add), I suddenly felt something drop onto the side of my hat. I glanced up, hoping to see a rogue squirrel knocking forgotten acorns off the tree above me. Instead, I just saw a barren tree, devoid of any such furry animal friends. I put my hand to my hat and felt the gooey goodness seep deep into my fingers. I turned to Small Asian Friend and said, "I hope a bird didn't just poo on my hat." She looked at me surprised, as she had not been similarly doused with gooey goodness and had not noticed my skeptical glance above. As I pulled my hand from my hat to inspect the damage, I saw the goo was not the white-brown birds are notorious for leaving on unsuspecting pedestrians for "good luck." No, my goo was brown. Red-brown, even. The poo of a sick bird? Tree sap? Small Asian Friend suggested I smell the goo. This sounded reasonable, so I smelled the goo, and you know what it smelled like? Pancakes! With maple syrup. As it turns out, I was sapped by a tree. I think that's a Boston thing. Could you imagine pedestrians in New York being sapped by trees? At least when a bird poos on a New Yorker, the New Yorker can get all irate and attempt to kick the nearest bird, while cursing and spitting. But who can get mad at a tree? Not this lady, I'll say that.

I'll leave you with this final note: I have decided to become the first big Jewish country music sensation. Have you ever heard of a Jewish country star? Don't laugh at me. Not for this, anyway. Why should that be so impossible to imagine? When I was in 6th grade, I did a rendition of Leann Rimes's cover of "You Light Up My Life" for my chorus class's MAD Day (which, redundantly, means Music Appreciation Day Day). I even used my country twang that I picked up while watching "Hey Dude" reruns. You know what my music teacher said? She said I was BETTER than Leann Rimes. I wonder where that music teacher is now. I'd love to have her represent me when I make my first country demo. Just wait for it. Five years from now I'll be saying "I told you so."

'Tis the season.

Whoever created vacations is the greatest person ever. I've had many a winter break, summer vacation, spring break, and the like in my life. But never before have I had the pure joy and relaxation that comes from choosing my own vacation days and taking an entire week off from work. I ignored my blackberry like a pro. I enjoyed running outside during the day on a weekday. I got hooked on a new (old) tv show (Veronica Mars). And I even accompanied Sister to a few law school classes. Ah, memories. Sister showed me a great time in Vermont. We saw the new HP (after driving over an hour and crossing state lines to get to a theater with more than one showing per night), cooked meals (and baked!), watched glee, worked out (though after my one trip to the Vermont Law gym, I decided I had encountered a few spider webs too many and resigned myself to a Tae Bo DVD in Sister's apartment and running through the rolling hills for the rest of my week's workouts), and began our Hanukkah shopping. Oh, glorious days!

After nearly a week in Vermont, Sister, Sister's friend Z, and I piled into Otto (oh, so good to drive Otto again!) and headed south to Boston for some QT with The Famous Auntie Bevy, Gramps, and the rest of the gang. Oh, and Mother, Pops, and Brother met us down there, too. The standard Thanksgiving fare did not disappoint, and we headed back to TFAB's house for a bit more food and a photo album viewing session. There's nothing like being around family - people who have known me my whole life, who have seen (and still loved me) when I had a black eye, who have stood by me when my tastes evolved from special order grilled cheese sandwiches to sushi, and who never cease to ask me whether I have found "anyone special" - to make me feel warm, fuzzy, and ready to listen to a John Mayer album while burning a vanilla lavender scented candle. I jest; my days of listening to John Mayer albums in their entirety have long since passed.

I mentioned my Four Point Plan in my last post. Point One, as you now know, is figuring out my next career move. A week with sister up at VLS helped me power through Point One and get a hold on where I think I need to be in order to "move on up." (And no, I don't mean up the chain to partnership. Why anyone would want to do that to herself is completely lost on me.) My goal is happiness (corny, yes), and I am on my way to starting down that yellow brick road. Check back in for more on Point One in the next few months. For now, knowing there's a way out makes going to work each morning much easier. Point Two is kicking up the fitness level. So far, so good. I even bought some $2.99 Billy Blanks Tae Bo DVDs on Black Friday! Now I just need to figure out how best to move my couch out of the way so I actually have enough room in front of my tv to do the workouts. The joys of NYC apartment living. More on Points Three and Four another time.

Now that Thanksgiving is over, the Christmas spirit is all around. In fact, as I write this, I am watching/listening to Martina McBride sing "O Holy Night" on the CMA Country Christmas special on abc. It's pretty fantastic. My office building has erected in its lobby the most massive Christmas tree I've ever seen indoors. I wonder if they keep the lights on all the time (and if so, whether the firm's Green Committee is going to do anything about the electricity overload). (As a side green note, I forgot to mention earlier that Sister's law school building has composting toilets. Yes, that's right, rather than being flushed and washed out to sea, your business drops down two stories into a contraption that converts it into fertilizer. Don't tell me you don't think that's absolutely genius.) The holiday season brings out the subway Christmas carolers. Now, I am a huge fan of subway musicians (when they are talented, I mean), but adding Christmas songs into the mix makes me stop and turn off my ipod every time. It takes me back to my days of singing gospel in college. What a blast. I wish I could give all the (talented) subway Christmas carolers money. But I can't. So instead, I give my extra change to those people dressed as Santa, ringing Salvation Army bells next to a bucket. I think that's fair. Oh, and a message to those (talented) subway Christmas carolers reading this: go audition for American Idol! If it can happen for J. K. Rowling and Jewel, it can happen for anyone. (And maybe one day it'll happen for me!)

Before I trot off to bed, I am allowing myself a shameless plug: with only 26 days of holiday shopping left, check out the senioritis designs and find something delightful for your loved (or even liked) ones! http://www.etsy.com/shop/senioritis Enjoy!

Off to the races.

I started to write a post about Halloween. I wrote about the craziness of Halloween in New York City - the way New Yorkers become incredibly outgoing, fun-loving people, talking to any stranger in the street, and making friends left and right. People in my building smiled when I walked into the lobby and commented on my (rather clever) Amelia Earhart costume. I started to write this post, but then. Then two weeks passed, and I decided it's too late to post about Halloween. So I won't. Check out facebook for costume photos.

Moving on.

I signed up for my first half marathon last week. Well, I entered the lottery, so I will train for the next few months, with the hope that I am given the grand opportunity of running my very first half marathon in March. And if I am not given said opportunity, I will just be in kick-ass shape, so I guess it's a win-win situation. I was totally inspired by my co-worker slash friend, Nittany J, who ran the ING NYC marathon a few weeks ago. I went out on Marathon Sunday, donning my Nike dunks and some leggings, ready to show off if I needed to. I met up with Co-Worker A and some others and did a bit of cheering. I caught up with Nittany J around mile 18 and joined in the race for about a mile. Wow, what a rush! Aaaand, I don't mean to brag, but Nittany J's stats indicated the mile I ran with her was her fastest mile of the 26.2. Wahoo!

Do you remember the book "Alexander and the Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day"? I remember being read the book before I could read, then reading it on my own. It was around the same time in life when "Where the Wild Things Are" was huge. I don't recall the specifics, but it was probably something about a kid having a bad - like, really bad - day. Then he wakes up, and finds out it was all a dream. Or he goes to bed, wakes up the next morning, and everything is better. Whichever path the story takes, it's meant to teach the kiddies that things generally aren't as bad as you think they are; things get better; tomorrow's a new day; blah blah blah. Well, this week has been one of those weeks where every night I've gone to bed hoping I'll wake up in the morning and discover the few days before were just a dream. But unfortunately, that doesn't happen often in real life. In children's books and sitcom episodes, yes. In real life, not so much. I won't go into detail, but let's just say, Point Number One of my Four Point Plan (which those of you who see me regularly know about, and those who are reading this and don't even know me have never heard of) deserves some acceleration. Okay, I'll elaborate a bit.

Working at a big law firm has taught me several things. One thing is that my time doesn't matter. Wait, that's not right. My time spent doing things other than billing hours doesn't matter. Like when I email a partner a draft at 11am and request comments or approval to send it out, for an external deadline that night, and the partner ignores my 11am email, my follow-up 3pm email, and my further 6pm email. Oh, and the partner is working from home. Per usual. I call the partner at home at 615pm, and I get no answer and no voicemail. I am ready to leave the office, figuring if the partner doesn't care about it, why should I, when I receive a call from the partner asking why I was looking for the partner. I then work until 12am, when I send the revised draft out. Repeat. Daily. Not too fun, eh? But I will stop the sob story right there. My Four Point Plan, and several pep talks from my co-workers (not to mention, amazing chocolate chip banana bread and Hermione Granger, our newest associate on the hall), will get me through the tough week, right? Sure.

On to the Four Point Plan. Point Number One: think about (and I mean seriously think about) what I want to do when I grow up (career-wise) and how best to get that rolling. (See immediately preceding paragraph for why this Point has to be accelerated. See future posts for Points Two through Four.)

I feel like a fifth grader on the last day of school before Christmas vacation. Tomorrow is my last day of work for a whole week. Yes, I am taking an entire week off. Well, our office is "closed" Thursday and Friday. But yes, I am taking Monday through Wednesday off. I will see Sister. I will enjoy the late fall foliage of rural Vermont. I will spend a lovely weekend in the company of The Famous Auntie Bevy. I will stuff myself full of turkey and pumpkin deliciousness. I will go Black Friday shopping.

I guess tomorrow really is a new day.

My manic depressive week.

I love roller coasters. I love being whipped back and forth, feeling like I might fall out, but knowing the likelihood of actually falling to my death from the tracks is something reassuringly close to zero. I love going upside down and feeling all the pressure of the world on my neck. And I absolutely love corkscrews. This is not a metaphor. I love riding roller coasters at amusement parks; I do not love (or even remotely like) riding roller coasters of emotion. This week has been a real roller coaster of emotion. The ups and downs have left me exhausted. I'm so tired I can barely relay it all to you. But I'll do my best.

So I flew home from Austin. I generally try not to check luggage when I fly. My trip home from Austin was no exception. Unfortunately, there was no room left in the overhead compartments when I boarded, so I had to gate check my bag. Hurrah! The perks of checking (not having to lift the bag up or get it down; not risking near misses as the bag falls from the overhead compartment onto an unsuspecting traveler) without the hassle of having to get to the airport an hour earlier and wait at baggage claim after a harrowing trip. We landed in the midst of a thunderstorm, and when I arrived at the gate, I was told that my bag could not be brought back up to the gate because of the lightning. I asked what that meant for my bag, and the man in the uniform responded with a shrug. I requested further clarification, and he said he thought it might end up at baggage claim. And I (completely reasonably) asked him where else it could possibly end up. And he said he wasn't sure, but it might be brought up to the gate once the lightning subsided. Completely fed up, I headed for baggage claim. I waited with the ordinary passengers who don't know the joy and ease of carrying on and waited for my luggage. As soon as I glimpsed it on the conveyor I ran over to collect it and proceeded to the taxi line. Did I mention it was raining? It was. The taxi line was the longest taxi line in the history of taxi lines. And it was raining. And the girl in front of me was smoking. Oy.

Anyone who has been in touch with me in the past month or so has come to know my (rational) apprehension about the epidemic that's sweeping the nation: bed bugs. I've looked at the photos online, and I've watched the number of retailers, movie theaters, and schools affected jump in number each day. I've refused to sit on the subway, I've showered every night when I come home from work, and I've checked my mattress once or twice a day. I was fairly confident I didn't have bed bugs. One night last week, I went to bed, turned off the light, and tried to fall asleep. Before I could do so, however, I found a bug in my bed. After gasping, jumping out of bed, and running to get a plastic bag to save the bug for later identification by a professional, I did the only reasonable thing I could think of doing at 1130pm on a weeknight in such a situation: I called my parents and started crying. I had done EVERYTHING I could to prevent this from happening. If I can't stop them, no one can! I'm going to have to burn down my apartment, break my lease, buy a new bed, throw out all my clothes.... Long story short, the exterminator came over, took one look at the bug, and told me it was a beetle, not a bed bug. How did a beetle get into my bed, I ask. The exterminator flipped over my bed and my couches and used a special light to check for signs of the real problematic critters - he didn't find any. Gosh, I have the best luck ever.

On Saturday, Brother and I set up shop at the bi-annual Crafts in Chelsea event and made a ton of new (facebook) friends. And blog followers. And newsletter readers. It was a serious good time. Our tent rocked (even though it took us about 2 hours to set it up), and our set up was super cool. We now have over 150 unique designs (check them out at www.seniorits.net), and life is pretty great. If you're really my friend, you'll buy something. (And if you're not really my friend, but you want to become my friend, that's a great way to make it happen.) What a high.

And then there's the classic manic depressive place in everyone's life: work. The billable year ends for us on October 31. That's a little over a week from now. Every day for the past month, I have calculated the number of hours I still need. I have gone from "Yes, I'm going to make my hours, make my bonus, keep my job, and save the world!" to "Yeah, I'm not going to make my hours, but it's a ridiculous measure of worth, anyway, and I never expected to make them, and I'm not going to buy into that big firm b.s. and cater to their money hungry ideals by meeting my hours," to "I'm not going to make my hours. They're going to fire me. I'm going to have to break my lease, and I'll have to live in a 1-bedroom apartment in Astoria with 3 other roommates." Talk about ups and downs. With 10 days to go, I need 11 hours. I think it'll happen. But I refuse to become emotionally invested. It's just too tiring. But I better make those hours.

Austin rocks.

October has been quite an eventful month. Any month that's kicked off with a three-day music festival is a month for me. I jetted down to Austin the first Thursday of October, donning a fedora, mini cowboy boots, and the biggest smile ever. (I was obviously ready for a good time.) Co-Worker A picked me up from the airport (I think this was the first time anyone has ever met me at arrivals, and it was totally magical. Thanks, Co-Worker A, for making me feel as special as the entire cast of Love Actually characters), and we headed into the city to explore and hydrate. After visiting the Texas Capitol Building (and violating the "no drinks in the Senate Chamber" rule - oops), we ended up at a biker bar (at least that's what my Austin Friend and the Harleys parked out front told me), which was totally fine because it had more varieties of cider than any Irish pub I've encountered in NYC.

Later that night Small Asian Friend ("SAF") and her Boston Bud arrived, and we prepared for our long weekend of ACL amazingness. One of the best things about ACL is learning about bands I've never heard before. SAF and I discovered a total gem as we camped out at one of the stages two and a half hours before my most eagerly anticipated act, Norah Jones, was scheduled to go on. If you haven't heard Edward Sharpe and the Magnetic Zeros, I highly recommend it. The entire clan of Zeros looks like they stepped into a time machine at Woodstock (the original Woodstock), and walked out 40 years later. The front man has bigger hair and a better beard than Brother ever will, no matter how much Brother looks like Wolverine when he stops cutting his hair (sorry to burst the bubble, Brother), and the harmonizing vocalist Jade Castrinos (whom I read somewhere is leading man Alex Ebert's girlfriend, but I can't verify that) sounds like every successful 60's-70's female vocalist combined. They rocked. Really rocked.

You know who else rocked? Norah Jones. She was fabulous. And she's styling a new short haircut with bangs. And she did a Johnny Cash cover. And SAF and I were in the very front. Ah, so wonderful. Other highlight shows include Amos Lee, Donovan Frankenreiter, and Matt & Kim. And the award for biggest disappointment goes to M.I.A. I wasn't a huge fan by any means to begin with, but she could have been one of the worst acts I've ever seen live. The stages have these giant screens next to them, so those who can't see the stage itself can still feel like they're right up front, watching the performer's every move. M.I.A. apparently didn't want anyone to see her (I'm skeptical she was even there) because she brought along a totally random video of people jumping rope and other things that made SAF and I feel like we were on acid. (Not that we know what it's like to be on acid. Or anything, really. We are law-abiding citizens, after all.) She was just terrible. I'm going to get on my soapbox here for a minute and say that artists who are not good live should not perform live. They should stick to recording music and selling albums. Ok, that's all I'll say about that.

Anyway, the rest of the weekend was just fantastic, and I discovered that Austin's airport has the best (read: fastest) airport security in the world. I got to the airport an hour and 15 minutes before my flight was scheduled for take-off. I arrived at the gate an hour and 7 minutes before my flight was scheduled for take-off. Glorious. Sadly, I had to go back to work when I returned to New York. But I guess work is what pays the bills and makes jetting down to Austin possible. Blah blah blah. Can't wait until next year!

This is how New Yorkers ride the subway.

This weekend I went back to the Island to run my yearly 10k with Pops. This year the Cow Harbor race had more runners registered than ever before - 5600 people. Not too shabby. My race time, however, was pretty shabby. Very shabby, I'd say. I could blame my 11+ minutes per mile pace on the unseasonable heat. Or the fact that my second toe on my left foot bled through my sock. Or even the fact that, after gratefully running through the incredibly refreshing water being sprayed from the sidewalks from hoses held by generous Northport residents, I realized that I was wearing a plain white t-shirt and white sports bra. (Oops.) But, I won't blame my lacking time on any of these easy excuses. I will, instead, concede that I should have trained. There's always next year.

I'm not sure what has happened in New York City in the past month, but for some reason the city's public transportation system has become twice as crowded as it was previously. I first noticed it about a month ago. Perhaps it has to do with the beginning of the new school year. Students and teachers take public transportation, right? I can't really picture the big yellow school buses pulling up at a random street corner to get the kiddies off to the first day of school. (On a side note, I remember having a great time at my elementary school bus stop. Except, of course, when the dad who lived across the street from me used to stand there with his son and smoke cigars. Ugh, gross. To this day, I can't smell a cigar without thinking of that man.) Maybe more city folk are trying to "go green" and take the subway (There's nothing like those Pepsi Refresh Project commercials to encourage the lazy man to do good). Whatever the reason, September has made me feel like a sardine like no month has ever before. Being touched on all sides by strangers and their messenger bags is bad enough. But some of these people really need to learn the wonders of gum. I've smelled my fair share of bad breath on the subway; but I was totally unprepared for what this morning's ride brought me. After I stepped onto the 4 train headed uptown around 908am, I quickly became sandwiched between (i) a tall teenage to twenty-something man (I'm horrible at guessing ages) wearing baggy clothes and a backwards/sideways (you know, that place halfway between the two) hat and (ii) an extremely put-together woman in her early twenties, wearing business attire. Usually I don't notice many details about the people standing near me on the train (especially while balancing a 400+ page book, an umbrella, my ipod, and work bag), but my nostrils couldn't help but take in the (vaguely) familiar aroma of a certain illicit substance, pouring out of the mouth of one of my fellow close-standing subway riders. Now, which of these two individuals, might you ask, was riding to work/school/somewhere high on a Tuesday morning at 913am? I'll just say, remember not to judge a book by its cover. And somewhere in midtown, at an accounting firm or a law firm or some other boring white color job, there's a young woman having way more fun on a Tuesday morning than the rest of us.

With ACL just over a week away, I can hardly contain my excitement to be there and my lack of enthusiasm to be at the office. I have, not surprisingly, fallen behind on my plan to listen to all of the bands I have not yet heard and discover all kinds of new gems. Well, there's still a week. Here we go!

As a final note, I am so so pleased with the writers of glee for including a brief reference to the wildly under-appreciated show that rocked my childhood, Kids Incorporated. Too bad my parents stopped getting Disney after a few years, so I never got to see the end of the show. To those few Disney executives likely reading this, I implore you to air reruns of this fabulous show. You have the opportunity to impress our nation's children (and adults who appreciate such wonders) with quality programming. Take advantage of it. Thanks.

New Name, New Look, New Year.

Gosh, I have so much to say (type), I don't even know where to start. I guess chronological order is always the most logical way to approach starting. Sometimes alphabetical works, too. But in the case of story-telling and recounting events, chronological will do. So here we go.

Since our last encounter, the Bride and her fiance - maybe he deserves a capital letter; let's call him "Hubby" - got married! Wahooo, and mazel! But before they got married, there was mikvah, and henna, and rehearsal(ah), and makeup, and hair, and everything. And while they were getting married, there were sweaty bridesmaids (mostly Small Asian Friend and our other college friend who may or may not have a name on here as of yet, but whom I shall now declare to be called "Boston Brit," but not me because I only sweat normal person amounts, while these ladies tend to "glisten," as they say, more than average) pained toes (followed by happy toes when Boston Brit and I donned our toms during the party part instead of our strappy heels), and a pear martini spilled completely down the front of my dress (entirely my fault). It was an extremely joyous occasion, complete with two hours of hora-like circle dancing, one problematic dance with a bride-hunting cantor, silk bouquets, and a college reunion. Wowwee, the level of fun that was had could only have been predicted by the incredibly appropriate lyrics "I got a feeling...that tonight's gonna be a good night [sics all around]." Oh, and I can't forget about the next day. There was brunch. Buffet-style. Which means seconds, possibly thirds for some people I won't name who came down from Boston for the occasion and then drove back to Boston that night.

Then came the Jewish new year. This is the best time of year to be a Jew. It's better, even, than Hanukkah (which really isn't all that great compared to other holidays where you get to eat more and have more fun). I jetted to the Island to see Mother and Pops, attended the obligatory service, and saw the cousins. Two of my cousins have given birth in the last month. Another just celebrated the first birthday of her adorable small child. In the past two years, the average age at Rosh Hashanah festivities has dropped by about 15 years. It's marvelous. Kids are impressed by sunglasses and sparkly shoes in ways that grownups (other than Boston Brit) just aren't. Their parents, sadly, didn't get to spend much time with other adults (what with the feeding, changing diapers, rocking, packing, unpacking, crying), but at least everyone agreed that their babies were really cute! Maybe next year. I just hope they ("they," meaning the babies) don't become more stylish than me. That might make me sad. So, we had all the works - challah, apples and honey, knishes, and all the dishes whose names I can't remember, but whose tastes leave a lasting impression on my 'buds all year long - all the fam, and all the sunshine. My family is pretty great. It was kind of perfect. (Apologies for the sap. It comes out sometimes. Feel free to ignore it.)

The next morning, Mother and I hopped in the ol' wagon (it's actually new, and actually a 2-door regular car, but it sounds so much cooler to say "the ol' wagon") and headed up to visit The Famous Auntie Bevy, Gramps, and eventually, Sister. Boston was the same terrific time as usual. Dinner with TFAB and Gramps and the gang, followed by Richardson's (possibly the best ice cream ever), and a stay at a hotel without wireless (how is that even possible?). Did I mention the B family loves to eat? Ok, good. I didn't want that to slip past you.

Then Mother and I headed even further north, through the farmland, across the border, and into the land of Cabot Cheese and maple syrup - the Great State of Vermont. (As a side note, doesn't it sound so great to say "the Great state of ____"? It was so smart of whoever came up with the word "state" to make it rhyme with "great." You can make any state sound fabulous by sticking it into that phrase. "The Great State of Iowa." "The Great State of Oklahoma." These states are not really great. But putting those few words in front of them makes them so alluring. Just something to note.) Sister told me she lived in a town with one street. She told me there were horses and carriages (for real). She told me there was one bar in this town. And she told me that the next town over was 11 miles away. She also told me that she drove across the border into New Hampshire to buy groceries. I did not believe Sister. I did not believe her one bit. I, as you may have gathered, am prone to use of hyperbole. I thought Sister might have that same tendency. Then I visited her.

There really is one road. I didn't quite get a look, but it's probably called "Main Street." That sort of name usually goes over well. The law school is beautiful (Vermont Law School - look it up.), the town is "quaint," as they say, and the Cabot Cheese and maple syrup were delicious. The biggest problem wasn't the small town or daddy long legs infestation. No, it was the fact that someone had mistakenly flipped the switch to turn on the heat in all of the basement apartments (to "test" something, someone claimed) and then neglected to turn it off. Sister's apartment was nearly 90 degrees when Mother and I arrived. As I mentioned above, I am not really a sweater. That night I sweat a ton. The insufferable heat aside, I loved the visit. I met Sister's two friends in law school. (Side plea: people at VLS, be Sister's friend. She is very nice. And very smart. And maybe she'll let you have my old outlines.) (Just kidding. Sister does not need my help making friends. She has lots, but two good friends are really all one needs in a town of 25 people, right?) I visited the one bar in town. I thought Sister was showing me where the outhouse was, but she was, in fact, pointing out the school gym. Those of you fortunate enough to be friends with me on facebook can find the photo I posted of Sister's gym and decide for yourselves what such a structure should be used for. In any event, Sister is having a ball up there, and with all the trees and clean air, I doubt she'll ever come back to New York. Perhaps I will move there. Give it time.

This post is way too long. I was planning to explain the blog's new name and new look, but alas, you will have to wait until next time to hear the story behind my re-branding. Enjoy the crisp fall air and pumpkin spice!

Enough hibernating.

So, it's a little over 6 months since my last post, and I figured it's finally time to emerge from my silent hibernation and start sharing my rambling once again. Several things have sparked my desire to rekindle my affectionate relationship with you people. I break down these items, in no particular order, below.

1- The Bride (discussed several posts ago) and her fiance are getting hitched THIS weekend. This is huge. After months and months of preparations (choosing the bridesmaids' dresses, re-wrapping the bridal shower gifts and making sure the proper card was with the proper gift, planning a kick-ass bachelorette weekend...and I think the Bride probably had a few things to do to prepare, too), the big day is finally here. I'm so excited I even got purple nail polish to match my plum bridesmaid dress. Too bad my hot pink retro chic Timex won't match. Hmm, maybe for the rehearsal dinner?

2- I changed departments at work, and I feel like a born-again...something. It's amazing the huge difference the people you work with can make. I actually don't dread going to work anymore. Sometimes, I even look forward to it. (Well, I really only look forward to it on Fridays when Harold comes around with 3pm snacks. Last week, we had chocolate cupcakes from Crumbs. Oh. So. Good.) I'm now a real estate lawyer, and I got my apartment's leasing agent to lower the rent she was asking for my lease renewal by $90/month. If that doesn't mean I've proved myself, then I don't know what does.

3- I discovered the most amazing commercial ever, which I am sharing here, exclusively, with you. Those clever folks over at Geico have succeeded in making me laugh for a full five minutes with this beauty. Check it out here.

With that, I call it a night. Till next time.

U.S.A., U.S.A.!

February is generally a fairly uneventful month for me. Sure, it begins with Pops' birthday, which is always a good time. But after the early joy of giving wears off, there's really not much else to look forward to. Valentine's Day is fine (I'm obviously always up for chocolate), but when you're single and have the flu on V-Day (I am, and I did), you think things couldn't get much worse. The one thing that has totally saved this February and even catapulted it into a favored spot in my ranking of months is the 2010 winter Olympics. I have been absolutely glued to my television, feeling the pain of every skier who wipes out and slides down the mountain on her face, and gasping in horror and disappointment as the figure skaters land on their bottoms after attempting triple axles.

The odd thing about watching the Olympics is how these athletes make us viewers think that we are way more talented than we are. They make everything look so easy; it can't be THAT difficult, can it? I haven't skied in almost two years, and before then, I hadn't touched a mountain in nearly half a decade. Those facts aside, watching my girls Lindsey and Julia make their turns with such ease and grace at 80 miles per hour makes me think that tackling a black diamond would be a cinch. And of course the folks over at NBC are keen on making every American athlete into a human interest story, so I'm now totally invested in them. I know who's friends with whom, who spends Christmas at whose cabins, and who listens to which songs during their warm ups. It's pretty absurd. And you absolutely have to laugh at the way the camera zooms in on every medalist's profile during the medal ceremonies, desperately trying to catch a tear - or at the very least, a moist eye. (The camera was disappointed by Shaun White in that respect.)

Though I think it's probably (I say "probably," rather than "certainly" because I don't like to ever lose total hope) a tad too late in life to set my sights on the Olympics, watching these games has reignited my competitive athletic nature. And it's perfect timing, as my firm softball season is fast approaching. I haven't picked up my glove in over a year, and I've never even attempted to hit slow pitch before, but I'm beyond stoked to get back on the field. Unfortunately, I'm not sure intramural firm sports carry the same weight as college varsity. (I don't think Coach telling a partner I have an 8pm game will get me out of a late night of work the same way an away game in Vermont excused me from Friday afternoon classes.) But if all goes as planned, our team will be so successful, we will become the pride and joy of the firm (earning a headline on the internal website), and they will hold happy hours in our honor. I have big, big plans. So, if you're reading this and you work with me, please PLEASE join our softball team. I don't want any of this forfeiting because we can't field a full team. Let's go people - make it a priority.

And on that note, it's time to watch Apolo Ohno snag the bronze. Team USA, you make me proud every day. (Yes, I am a cheese ball.)

My feet play a large role in this post. I'm sorry.

Broken promises are never fun. That is why I am not going to promise to write more often. I don't want to let you down. I will, however, promise to TRY to write more often. Being a working person is a lot harder and takes a lot more time than TV suggests. Remember Miranda from Sex and the City? She was a lawyer. She always talked about how being a lawyer meant not having time for anything else. But then she was always talking about it from somewhere other than her office. Like at brunch with the ladies. Or in LA with the ladies. Or at a pizza place in Brooklyn with Steve. The whole thing was very deceiving, but in case you're wondering, lawyers in NYC work harder than Miranda. I'm living it. It's a fact.

Notwithstanding the above paragraph, I was able to get away to Boston this weekend and had a lovely three days up in the land of Anna's Taqueria and hailstorms. I hopped on Amtrak after work on Friday and took one of the only empty seats, next to a girl who looked a tad younger than me. She had chin and eyebrow piercings, and it looked like she hadn't washed her hair in about two weeks. We had a ton in common. My favorite part was when we were about 20 minutes from South Station and she called the person picking her up to complain about how badly she needed a cigarette. She must have dropped the f-bomb seven times during that phone call. For once in my life, my intense desire to arrive at my destination was not driven by my bladder. No, Friday night I counted down the seconds to our arrival, only hoping that my seatmate would wait until the doors opened before lighting up. Mission accomplished.

The weekend was one of relaxation and small indulgences. Small Asian Friend and I got pedicures on Saturday. The women told SAF and me to sit next to each other and to dip our feet into the water basins at our feet (pretty standard pedi procedure). They then, however, proceeded to work on my feet while letting SAF's wombat feet soak till they resembled giant prunes. Poor SAF. At least she had US Weekly and Brangelina to keep her company. Of course, since it's winter and I haven't worn anything other than flip flops to a pedi in about 3.5 years, I had no idea they would provide us with enormous foam flip flops. At first this seemed a good idea. That was, until I stood up to walk over to the dryer and my big toes on both feet got messed up as I tried to walk in those things. Oh well, I decided since it's winter and no one will see my toes but me, it really didn't matter. I finished and must have dried my toes for about 45 minutes by the time SAF was ready. Then came the real fun. SAF wanted that crazy oil stuff so her nails would dry faster, but I wanted none of it. I had been drying for 45 minutes- there was no need. I tried explaining that to the woman who rushed over with oil, but to no avail. Before I knew what was happening, she had oiled my toes and shoved plastic bags over my feet. I was then forced to put my boots on and walk up the giant hill to SAF's apartment with gross, wet plastic covering my feet inside my shoes. WHY WOULD THEY DO THAT? It was the most uncomfortable feeling ever. Just totally awkward. SAF didn't seem to mind. I mean, she did ask for it. Thanks a lot.

On Sunday, we partook in the amazingness that is Zipcar (Mr. Zipcar, I salute you) and made our way up to Maine for the outlet shopping. Mother would be so proud. It was a beautiful day as we set out on I-95. Much to our dismay and surprise, the clouds appeared, and then grew darker, the further north we drove. By the time we got to Kittery, it was pouring, and I was (obviously) wearing totally inappropriate footwear. To rectify that situation, we made the Kittery Trading Post our first destination, and I emerged from the store wearing sparkling new duck boots with the tags attached. My feet were instantly warmer, and thus spent the rest of the day thanking me. We drove on towards Bob's Clam Hut, a family favorite lunch spot, and found the parking lot surprisingly empty. Excited at the thought of shellfish and warmth, we bounded into the Hut, only to find the entire kitchen covered in darkness. Apparently, the power had gone out in all of Kittery, and the only reason we hadn't noticed it earlier was because the Trading Post had its own generator. Of course. We were forced to drive on, in an attempt to find some nourishment and dry quarters. The restaurant we found in Portsmouth exceeded all expectations (although its decor reminded me a bit of the cult restaurant Monard and I ate at months ago in Ithaca). We returned to Kittery to find the power had come back on and enjoyed a very successful (though lengthy) visit to Tumi.

On our way back to Boston, we surprised The Famous Auntie Bevy with a visit. Amazingly, we entered her house in the middle of a huge family event, so Small Asian Friend had the fortunate occasion to meet the whole clan. Of course, TFAB told her age old story about bathing me in the tiniest bowl when I was a baby. I may have mentioned this tale once or twice before, but suffice it to say that over the years I have progressed from being the size of a normal healthy baby, to fitting in a thimble full of soap and water. Priceless. The visit was terrific, and if it weren't for the time constraints of Zipcar, SAF would have enjoyed the best steak tips north of the Carolinas. But rather than turn into pumpkins (who owed Mr. Zip even more money), we returned to Boston, to an evening of mac and cheese and facebook stalking. Just perfect.

A few additional highlights of the trip included:
- finally joining the 21st century by buying an iPod touch. I love it. I love everything about it.
- seeing Leap Year by myself, while, due to unforeseen scheduling issues, my host and our other Boston friends saw In the Heights. The movie was horrible.
- discovering the best tea ever in SAF's kitchen cabinets: Yogi, Calming. Try it. You'll thank me. I promise.

In other news: I was asked to be a bridesmaid! This is incredibly exciting, and I am honored and thrilled to have been asked. The Bride is one of my housemates and best friends from college, and so far all the wedding prep stuff I've attended has been a blast. I can't believe we're old enough to be getting married. It's pretty incredible. Oh, and as a side note: I will be accepting applications for my plus-one beginning in a few months, so start working on those personal statements.

One more thing: I just caught the end of The Notebook. I don't think I ever cry as much at a screen as I do when I watch this movie. Oh wait, other than when I watch Extreme Makeover, Home Edition. Say what you will, but that show is heartwarming and uplifting and mushy and sad and fantastic.