Halloween 2011: The First Year I Didn't Dress Up

I fear that I have gotten old. Yes, I did just go to Techie A's 30th birthday (and yes, I'm still in the first half of my year being 27). But what is making me feel old is not the fact that I now have friends who are "in their 30s." Nor is it the fact that I can barely say that I'm "in my mid-20's" any longer. I feel old because instead of going out for Halloween, I am sitting on my bed at 10pm, looking forward to taking my Nyquil (I am sick; I am not taking Nyquil for fun), and thinking about how obnoxious those kids yelling outside on Second Avenue are. The part of all this which makes me feel old is that I'm not the least bit upset about my evening (other than the being sick part), and I can barely remember the days when I would dress up (in party clothes, not Halloween clothes) and galavant about town till the wee hours of the morning. Sigh. The life of a girl in her "late 20s."

In other news, I moved! I don't remember if I mentioned the move in my last post. If not, prepare yourself for an (unpaid) endorsement: Moishe's Movers is the way to go! Moishe's men were swift and efficient. They took my IKEA bed apart at my old place and put it together at my new place as if it were a paint by numbers, rather than a maze created by the Swedes to weed out the geniuses. I now live in the tolerable part of the Upper East Side, and I adore it. I can walk to work (when I'm not running extremely late, which happens infrequently), run in the park, and take the bus! The bus is the second most glorious way to travel around Manhattan (second to walking), and I think that it is hugely underrated and underutilized by the common 20-something. Manhattan-dwellers, lend me your ears. Take the bus. It is lovely!

So Sister and I planned a nice little trip down to the B Family Timeshare in Orlando for her spring break in March. You may recall Sister and I went to "The Happiest Place on Earth" during my third year of law school and had a blast. We decided to relive the magic this year with a new destination: Harry Potter World, and some other guests in tow. I told Lady Friend we were going on a surprise vacation in March and that I wouldn't disclose the location of said vacation until some arbitrary future date, but I would give her hints along the way. I gave her a hint within the first three days (I'm a sucker, I know), and told her that we were not going alone. I also had told her the week in March to block off. Fast forward to day 3 of Lady Friend knowing I had a surprise for her: Pops is sitting in my new place, shooting the breeze with Lady Friend, while I am blow drying my hair and getting ready for a morning out. As I turn off the dryer, I hear Pops say to Lady Friend, "So, I hear you guys are going down to Orlando." My eyes pop out of my head as I hear Lady Friend respond, "We are??" And I peek outside the bathroom and see Pops trying to recover his lost ground. He says, "Oh, I thought Beth told me she was going; it must have been [Sister]." He then begins to tell Lady Friend about the week one of his daughters will be spending down in Orlando at the B Family Timeshare. I emerge from the bathroom and try to play it cool while saying, "Oh, Sister told me she's going to Orlando." Clearly amused, Lady Friend asks when this trip is happening, and I reply "February, I think." Pops says, "No, it's in March." I want to crawl under my amazing new shaggy rug. This, my friends, is what we call "Bluck."

Poor Bathroom Etiquette Irks Me.

Last week I was in the ladies' room at work, washing my hands before heading back to my office, when I witnessed an incident illustrative of a disgusting, disturbing and downright offensive trend of office behavior that violates even the most liberal of sensibilities. I'm sure you have many guesses as to what appalling thing I encountered in the loo, but I assure you whatever guess you have hazarded is incorrect. (I am glad, however, that you have enjoyed the interactive portion of this post.) Allow me to elaborate.

I was standing at the vanity looking at myself (critically) in the mirror when a partner who sits on my floor walked into the ladies' room. We exchanged smiles as we do when we see each other around the office (and all the while I know she is just barely able to keep herself from wrinkling her nose in distaste as she looks my outfit (black jeans, a v-neck t-shirt, a cardigan, and bracelets halfway to my elbow -- at least I'm wearing heels!) up and down and compares it to her own (business dress, matching business suit jacket, and pearls). I notice she is carrying a stack of papers as she walks into the stall. My eyes are glued to the mirror as she closes the stall door, and I panic, thinking, "where is she planning to put those papers while she does her business!?" And then she goes ahead and does it. This beautifully dressed, totally put-together partner puts her stack of papers on the bathroom floor. GAH!

When I was in fourth grade, my elementary school's gym teacher asked me to be in the school play (Annie) because I could do cartwheels across the stage of the cafe-gym-itorium without falling off. The bad thing about doing a play in a cafe-gym-itorium as a fourth grader is that you have to complete your costume changes in a regular old bathroom rather than a dressing room. During one such costume change I was so preoccupied with getting my foot in the hole of my leotard that I missed placing my foot back on my shoes and instead placed my poor bare foot on the bathroom floor. I jumped because it was cold and because even as a fourth grader I knew it was gross to touch the floor of a public bathroom. A few days later, a wart appeared on my foot, and I am still convinced that said wart appeared because my foot touched the bathroom floor.

I relate this anecdote not to tell you about my humble beginnings as a stage performer (they were humble, indeed), but rather to show the danger of touching the floor of a public bathroom. I have no doubt that touching papers that have touched a public bathroom floor are just as bad as setting your bare foot on such a floor, and I now fear for the health and safety of my co-workers. Allow me a public service announcement: next time you are walking towards the restroom with some work-related item in your hand, please (please!) put said item aside before entering the stall. Place it by the sink. Put it on top of the paper towel dispenser. Leave it on the floor in the hallway. Just don't put it somewhere that you'll have to touch it again before washing your hands. Because that's just not sanitary. And an unsanitary office is not a fun place.

13.1 Miles. Done and done.

So, I don't mean to brag, but...I ran a half marathon. That's right. 13.1 miles. In one day. Without stopping. Thank you, Hal Higdon, for providing the best half marathon training program a girl could hope for. And thank you, Sister, for actually sticking to Mr. Higdon's training plan, so you were well positioned to yell at me to keep going and stop being a baby as you sprinted up each hill and then turned around to look in disgust as I barely remained upright. (Note, the previous sentence was only a slight exaggeration.) I look forward to actually training for my next half marathon. Sister, you are a total rock star. My apologies for holding you back. I salute you, and I can't wait to do it again.

As you may know, the aforementioned half marathon was in Vermont. As you may also know, Irene hit Vermont just a bit harder than she hit New York City. We all saw the news footage of that beautiful old covered bridge being torn apart and carried down the river. I'm here to tell you that the news wasn't lying to you (even if it was just The Today Show, and not the real news). Lady Friend and I navigated the detours (and the detours to the detours, following last week's rain), with what I wish I could call grace. I am happy to report I cried only once (and it was the perfect moment, as you will see). As we searched for our mountaintop hotel the night before the race, Lady Friend and I drove past a red light with a barely legible sign placed next to it which read "STOP ON RED. ONE LANE ROAD AHEAD. UP TO 18 MINUTE WAIT." As we drove past, I started to read the sign, then yelled, "Stop!!" Startled, Lady Friend kept going, but yelled at me, "What!? Why?" And as I saw the rest of the sign light up, I yelled once again, "Stop, stop!! Red!!" (Obviously, full sentences and the entirety of the English language escaped me.) I shed a tear or two (or seventeen) as the car came to a stop (did I mention our phones had had no service for the past hour?) The light turned green, and we started along a rocky road along the river. We saw houses with only half the structure remaining, and debris everywhere. We came to the end of the one lane road and breathed a sigh of relief before coming to another sign that said "Road closed." Naturally, there was no arrow or "detour this way" sign accompanying the sign. Finally (and by the grace of some higher being), my phone started to vibrate- Sister! She had just made the arduous journey from her small Vermont town south to the mountaintop hotel and helped us navigate our way over there, through the unmarked detours. I have never before been so happy to reach a parking lot in my life.

Sister, you were my savior twice this weekend. Gracias! (Note my use of Spanish here, in anticipation of your upcoming trip to Sevilla.)

Oh! Have I mentioned my new apartment? I'm moving next week! Crazy. Yes, I'm moving to the Upper East Side. Yes, I have spent much of my time since moving to Manhattan dissing the Upper East Side. Yes, I am still moving there. BUT my new studio (with an alcove!) is huge (if I am remembering my apartment viewing properly...), AND I can walk home from work. Now all I have to do is pack up my entire apartment in the next week...while I'm in Austin. (Oops.) Here we go, ACL!

Natural disasters take New York (and I take Lady Friend to dinner).

Today was the most gorgeous day ever. I haven't experienced a hurricane before (other than the one that knocked down the chimney at my parents' house when I was 5 years old), so I'm not sure if the day after a hurricane is usually the best weather of the entire year. But today was hands-down the best weather of 2011. The sky was what they call "sky blue," and there were no clouds in the sky. In fact, today's sky looked almost exactly like the pictures I used to draw of houses with neat landscaping and suns wearing sunglasses (my cleverness was obviously early onset), with trees blowing lightly in the wind, and stick figures wearing scarves. In honor of my old renderings, I wore a scarf today. (Yes, I sweat through it while walking seven avenues across town and seven avenues back, but it was obviously worth it just to feel the autumnal glow.) By the way, there was apparently an earthquake last week. Oh, and a hurricane, too. But enough on that.

I have billed a lot of hours recently. I was told (by a reputable source) that I (well, a deal I closed recently) made the firm one million dollars (that's $1,000,000.00 in number form). I don't mean to sound demanding, but shouldn't I get a cut of that million? I'll take something small like 10%. I'm about to pay a real estate broker 15% of my annual rent for helping me to find an apartment (i.e., getting a key from a management company and unlocking the door for me), so I clearly deserve at least 10% of the firm's earnings for drafting releases and gathering signature pages. I shouldn't complain, though, so I'm not going to. Instead, I'm going to tell you about the glorious feast Lady Friend and I had as a result of said million dollar deal. As I mentioned, I have worked a lot this month. I have been at the office till 1 or 2am fairly regularly, and I've returned by 10am each morning. I have eaten lunch at my desk and sat on pointless conference calls. I have cried (just once!) while at work out of exhaustion. My reward, however, for these torturous weeks was grand. The head of our group told me in passing that once the deal closes, I should go out for an expensive dinner ("don't bring me a receipt for anything less than a hundred dollars.") and bring him the bill. Wahoo! Lady Friend and I ate delicious food while getting dizzy at the spinning restaurant atop the Marriott Marquis, and I sent my $250 bill directly to said partner. (Sidenote: if any employers or bosses or workplace superiors are reading this, there's such a thing as patting people on the back for doing a good job. It makes said good job doer feel like a rock star. Think about it.)

Sister turned 23 this month. Happy birthday, Sister.

Other fun things that happened to me this month: (1) I got a real estate broker fired (she stood me up, so she deserved it); (2) I purchased 5 hip hop dance classes for JUST $25(!!) (and relatedly, watched Step Up 3); (3) I walked down the street on my way back to work from lunch, complaining about all the people standing outside in the nice weather, and wishing I could just stand around outside instead of going back to my office, and then, upon returning to my office, learned that these people had just evacuated their buildings following earthquake tremors felt in NYC; (4) I submitted an application for a new apartment (yay!); (5) I learned that my freezer (which has been part of my apartment for the past 2 years) has an ice maker in it (who knew that diagram in the freezer actually meant something?); and (6) I ran 9 miles (just 4.1 more, and I'm all ready for my half marathon in TWO weeks).

Shout out to Techie A and Techie E, for being great friends and taking a chance on this homeless girl following Mayor Bloomberg's evacuation orders. Your four walls and slowly deflating aerobed made me feel oh-so-safe while Irene had her way with downtown New York. I owe you big time.

I Just Want to Say: Gargling Salt Water

They just opened an amazing store across the street from my apartment. This is the kind of store you can go to every single day, and walk out of with a sizeable bag, feeling like you just bought something you absolutely need and could not have gone another day without. The store they opened across the street from my apartment is a brand-new, gorgeous (that's not an overstatement) Duane Reade. This Duane Reade has a smoothie bar and a nail salon in it. It has all the perks of a normal Duane Reade, mixed with all the glamor of the marble-lobbied Trump Building which houses it. Oh, and did I mention it's open 24 hours! How amazing! This new addition to my block is one of the (slowly amassing) reasons I will be sad to leave my 'hood come fall. Sidenote: when I was young(er) and living on Long Island, the radio stations my parents listened to would always play Duane Reade commercials, with that catchy little slogan: "Everywhere you go! Duane Reade!" I had never seen a Duane Reade in my life, so I (naturally) wondered where these people were going that they saw Duane Reades everywhere. I could not understand why a radio station that broadcast to the middle of Long Island would advertise that a place is everywhere you go, when it was actually nowhere I went and really served me no purpose for the first 24 years of my life. I thought that jingle would do better on Long Island for the Gap or Dunkin' Donuts or Wendys, or, in the later years, even Starbucks. But then I moved to the city and saw that Duane Reades are basically NYC-centric competition for CVS and Rite Aid. I never really had a preference among the three of them, but now that I live across the street from my very own 24-hour luxury Duane Reade, I don't think I'll be stepping foot inside a CVS anytime soon. It's the first thing I see when I step outside my door in the morning, and it's the last thing I see before entering the revolving door into my building at the end of the day. Now it really is "everywhere I go. (Duane Reade!)"

I recently read a book by Nora Ephron entitled, "I Remember Nothing." Small Asian Friend and Lady Friend both could tell you that this is an appropriate name for a book I would be reading. (Actually, they would tell you it's more appropriately the name of a book I should have written, since it describes me well.) While the book didn't make me "laugh out loud" in the same way Tina Fey's did, it made me smile on the subway a whole lot, and I found many of her self-announced quirks endearing (likely because I find I have many of those same quirks) and enjoyable to read about. I'm going to share a detail about one story in particular that made me smile on the subway (which probably made those around me on the subway somewhat uncomfortable). Nora talks in one chapter about chicken soup. The chapter's title is "I Just Want to Say: Chicken Soup." She names a few of her chapters in that manner, beginning with "I Just Want to Say:..." I like it a lot. Anyway, her chapter on chicken soup is one short paragraph long and talks about how she always has chicken soup when she feels a cold coming on and then inevitably gets the cold anyway. So, she questions, is it the chicken soup that causes the cold? I have often wondered the same thing about that old home remedy of gargling salt water when your throat begins to hurt. When I was a child, I got strep throat once or twice a year, and whenever I felt the beginnings of it, Pops would tell me to go gargle with salt water. I always did (the obedient child that I was), and I still always got strep throat. I decided to refuse to gargle for most of my older teenage years and throughout college because I realized I knew better than to listen to the parents and doctors who were obviously getting kickbacks from the salt industry. Last Friday, I felt the beginnings of a sore throat. Lady Friend and Pops both told me to gargle warm salt water to make it feel better. Outnumbered, I figured, fine, I'll gargle the damn salt water. Today I went to the doctor. I have strep throat. Nora Ephron and I clearly have more in common than our ability to forget things. That's all I'm saying.

Happy Birthday to Me (and America) (in that order).

I am writing this post on a flight home from a glorious weekend (plus one day!) in Cape Cod. (Sidenote: should the appropriate preposition there be “on”? Or maybe it’s “at”? I don’t think one can be “in” a cape. In fact, I’m positive one cannot be “in” a cape – unless one has gotten oneself into a tangled mess with Clark Kent in a phone booth, but that’s obviously not the type of cape I’m talking about -- and that’s not fun for either party. Okay, fine, I will just forget it and carry on.) Boston Brit and her family welcomed me out to the Cape for a terrific weekend of all things non-work-related. I slept as late as I wanted every morning, went for longish hilly runs, ate delicious food with more people at one table than when my entire department eats lunch together (dinner parties are fun!), and paid more than I pay Starbucks every morning for a much more flavorful and refreshing iced soy chai than Starbucks will ever be able to make (at least that’s what I told myself while paying $4.50 for a small plastic cup filled most of the way with ice – but yay for small business!).

Boston Brit is one of the best people ever to go on a vacation with (to her own house on the Cape). She is one of those people who needs to plan out her entire day before she goes to sleep the night before, but she is willing to do pretty much anything you suggest. You want to walk all the way to the one store in town to get your chai after she has just returned from a 20 mile bike ride? Boston Brit says, "sure!" You want to laze on the back porch all afternoon reading the most amazing book that has ever graced your finger tips (shout out to Tina Fey!)? Boston Brit says, "no problem!" It's pretty fantastic. So, yes, my weekend was (as I mentioned earlier) glorious.

Allow me to rewind a week and return to the weekend of my birth date. To celebrate the coming of my twenty-eighth year, I did what all New Yorkers do on their birthdays: I went to brunch with friends. (Note that New Yorkers tend to do this every weekend, not just on their birthdays, but they absolutely do it on their birthdays, whereas sometimes they will not do it on a given weekend day. Thank you for allowing me to clarify.) We went to Kitchenette, which I highly recommend if you are from the South or like big portions and biscuits (i.e., if you are from the South). The weekend also happened to be Pride weekend in NYC, and Lady Friend and I attended several Pride events including a reading of celebrity memoirs by celebrities (not those celebrities whose memoirs were involved) that really made me laugh out loud. We were confused, however, by the fact that this particular reading of celebrity memoirs was advertised as a special Pride edition. At first we thought it would be memoirs of gay celebrities. But the first reading was from The Situation's memoir (sidenote: has he even been famous long enough for him to have a memoir? That seems very silly.), so we decided that was not the way the classification worked. Then we thought perhaps the celebrity readers were all gay, but we googled the woman who plays the mother on Burn Notice (good show - check it out), who read several of the excerpts, and found out she wasn't gay, so we were very confused. We decided, in the end, that the chosen memoirs must have come from celebrities who stereotypically appeal to gay people (read: gay men). Streisand, Elizabeth Taylor, Cher, and Burt Reynolds all made appearances. Pride edition or no Pride edition, it was still a hoot.

Let's get back to my birthday. And birthday surprises. And the fact that if you know me at all, you know that I don't often purchase things for myself. I do an awful lot of talking about things I want and looking at things in stores and going back and forth as to whether to get a particular thing and leaving stores empty-handed. So, it should not be shocking to hear (read) that Lady Friend has heard (heard) me talk about lots of things I want. Like a yoga mat bag. And a running belt (not a dorky one; a small one that's nifty and spandex). And a new yoga mat. And the Tina Fey book, "Bossypants." (Shout out to Tina Fey!) All of these things are things I have wanted for quite some time and never bought for myself. Lady Friend (who is terrifically thoughtful, by the way) purchased each of these items for me in anticipation of my birthday and planned on surprising me with them during the weekend. The Thursday before my birthday, we went to Woodbury Commons, where I stumbled upon a Lululemon yoga mat bag for just $29! Of course I had to get it! I emerged from the store and found Lady Friend visibly upset. I hounded her to find out what was wrong, and she told me she had purchased a yoga mat bag for my birthday. GAH! The one I had bought was (obviously) final sale! And so began my ruining all of her surprises. A close call with a yoga mat, followed by a rant about how this one brand of running belts (which is nowhere to be found in Manhattan's running stores) is clearly superior to all other brands of exactly the same running belt, and the kicker, when I received her final gift (which was actually a surprise and very much something I wanted (shout out to Tina Fey!)) only to then open the gift my sister had mailed to me earlier in the week and find the exact same book. Sigh. I am not a bad person. I am just a difficult person to surprise. (Shout out to Lady Friend!)

In other news, I actually met people in my building today (well, on the rooftop). I am tempted to look back at all of my posts over the past two years and count the number of times I have mentioned other people in my building (I'll guess 3) and the number of times I've mentioned any interaction with such people other than a negative one (I'll guess 0, unless I count an interaction with Juan, the best doorman ever). But my interaction with these two guys was very positive. So I guess there's still hope for FiDi. Too bad I'm moving out in September. That reminds me- anyone who knows of a great deal on a one bedroom in any neighborhood of Manhattan other than the upper east side or any (non-scary) neighborhood of Brooklyn, let me know (if you haven't already taken it for yourself)!

Before I go, I will leave you with one more thought. Here's my thought. Actually, it's more of a question. Can someone please tell me when it became acceptable/fashionable for young otherwise normal looking women to wear high waisted shorts? I don't understand. I thought we were a generation of low rise to just under the belly button, no? Please, women of Manhattan, look at yourselves in the mirror before leaving the house. That's all I ask.

Yeah, yeah, another month without a blog post. I know. Believe me, I know. Let's move on and just be happy that we're here together once again.

Happy May! Yes, there's only one more day left in this glorious month, but May was a happy month for me, so here's hoping yours was, too. (Alright, I think that's enough effusive cheer for one post.)

So I am currently on vacation (wahoo!). Unfortunately, I return to work tomorrow (antithesis of wahoo!). But it's actually cool because the summer associates have joined the ranks at work so now I have people who, though probably not younger than me, are lower on the food chain, whom I can order around and send out for my coffee. Seriously. Summer associates are the best thing to ever happen to law firms. (I wouldn't really treat them like that, don't worry. I don't even drink coffee. Chai, on the other hand...) But I'm actually excited to meet them. Even though our office manager thinks she has a sense of humor and sat a summer associate with the same name as me in the office next door to mine. (She will obviously have to change her name, as there's only room for one of us on the 20th floor. Don't even start.)

So, yes, I'm on vacation. I just returned from the west coast, and it was a total blast. I didn't make it out to LA this time (don't worry, UCLA folks, I'll be out there in late June); rather, I was up in those rainier lands known as Seattle and Portland. Sister had two weeks between sessions and met me out in Seattle after spending a week ice fishing in Alaska. She lived in an igloo all week, so I'm sure she welcomed our retro chic hotel in Seattle (and its four walls made of solid material - yes, I know ice is the solid form of water, but that's besides the point). We spent three days in Seattle, checking out all the sights (i.e., buying clothes we don't need at Nordstrom Rack), dining on the finest northwest delicacies (the best sushi roll ever - crab meat, fuji apples, and jalapenos - amazing!), and hanging with the dreaded (that's dreaded because they had dread-locks) locals at this hilariously eclectic (in terms of clientele) outdoor bar while mosquitoes ate my flesh. Good times all around. Then we swept down to Portland for a quick peak (where we conveniently also stayed one block away from a Nordstrom Rack- way to go, Sister- fine choices of hotels in both locations). I liked Seattle better, and Sister like Portland better, and those preferences suit us just fine. Perhaps one day I'll be a government lawyer in Seattle while she fights for clean waterways (or something like that) in Portland. And our kids will be friends. And we'll all pose for J. Crew-inspired photo shoots. And life will be perfect. Yes, I think that sounds highly feasible.

I need to backtrack for a moment to tell you about the hilarity that preceded my west coast adventure. This pre-adventure was my five year college reunion, and hilarity is a completely accurate description. Small Asian Friend and I drove up to Wes Friday night and met up with some now Townie Friends who showed us their newly purchased homestead (which was really nice, I might add) and dined with us. We made our way to campus, where we checked in and retrieved our keys to our dorm rooms. Yes, you read that correctly: we stayed in dorm rooms. Well, to be totally frank, we stayed in one dorm room. We had a child cot for Boston Brit, but she opted out of reunion weekend (don't worry, Boston Brit, I'm no longer upset about this- just sad that you missed out), so Small Asian Friend pushed it into my room and slept on it for the few hours of the wee morning she slept each night we were there. We did all the usual things Wes students do: played squash, went to Friendly's and Mortenson's (yes, we like our ice cream), hit up a house party or two, avoided attending graduation, and purchased Wes gear (as if we didn't buy enough during our four years there and the five years since) for our friends and families. But wow, what a great time. I saw my high school boyfriend (who happened to also be my year at Wes), my freshman year roomie, my only other friend from my freshman year dorm, and my backyard-sharing neighbors from senior year. Granted, I already knew what most of these people were doing from facebook (thanks again, Mark Zuckerberg), but it was nice to see them in person (so as to not feel like a crazy internet stalker).

In other news, this weekend was my Lady Friend's birthday. (Yes, I have a Lady Friend. She's wonderful. Thank you, Four Point Plan - success!) We did all the things one should do with one's Lady Friend in New York City during one's Lady Friend's birthday weekend: we strolled across the Brooklyn Bridge (despite the grossly hot sticky weather); we sat on a bench in Central Park and looked out at the water (while swatting away bugs and avoiding getting sick off the scent of horse poo); and we had a delicious dinner with her best friend in the 'Burg (after arriving at the original restaurant we had planned to meet at and finding it closed for renovations). But despite all that, it was actually a success and a great birthday (so said Lady Friend). So I will now pat myself on the back.

And now it's back to the usual Sunday night routine of catching up on my dvr and hoping to avoid the dreaded (this time not meaning dread-locked individuals) start to the work week.

Ok, so I took a longer hiatus than anticipated. I was basically boycotting all forms of communication following Pia being ousted from American Idol. (Ok, that's only partly true. I just boycotted blogging - only because I had to let this marinate before writing a rant for the whole world to see.) I actually think America has no ears. Or no fingers (with which to dial a telephone and vote for Pia). Seriously, America. Who are you? I barely recognize you right now. I don't even want to look at you. I'm done.

Since we last spoke (or since I last wrote at you), lots has happened. My firm's softball season started, and we won our first game! We are officially undefeated. We didn't just win - we actually demolished the other team. I felt kind of bad because we are a-hole corporate lawyers, and the other side was a non-profit (you know, people whose souls have not been stolen from them) doing good things for the world. But who am I to go easy on others who can't keep up with my (and my team's) athletic prowess? I mean, that's just not how you play the game. No one wants pity. People want competitiveness, and I give people what they want (in this context, at least). Our season opener was on the one day April has seen where it broke 60 degrees. It was glorious - I left work at 5pm, changed into shorts, a t-shirt, and my hot red cleats (go Wes), and breathed in that amazing dirt smell. Wait, no, was it dirt? No, I definitely didn't smell dirt. Did I mention my game was on 4/20? Right. It was THAT smell. I have a suggestion for all you members of the NYPD reading this. Next year, if you're low on summonses on 4/20, go watch a softball game in Central Park. I promise you'll find what you're looking for.

Now, the big news: I had jury duty earlier this month. (Shout out to my new friend NR from Utah!) I was called for service at the supreme court building downtown, and it was a terrific respite from work. I know most people hate jury duty, but I found it to be an excellent way to learn about New Yorkers. I spent the first day sitting in a large room, watching Verinoca Mars episodes, and waiting for my name to be called. I crossed my fingers hoping for a criminal trial. A big one. Like the mobster one. Or like the one in Legally Blonde. It was a slow day, so the clerk (or administrative guy- whatever he's called) who sat at the front of the room tried his hand at a bit of stand up. He was actually pretty good. I'm thinking about writing a letter to the state court thanking it for presenting potential jurors with such a great man for entertainment. You may have had to be there to appreciate these gems, but check it: At the end of the first day, the man stood at the front of the room and said, "So, if you have any non-pornographic magazines piling up at home that you'd like to share with your fellow jurors, feel free to bring them in tomorrow." (I thought about asking whether anime was acceptable, but decided against it. (Note, I do not actually own anime publications. Just so you know.)) I also chuckled at the end of the second day, when our comedian was saying goodbye to those chosen for juries to begin on the next Monday and warned: "Have a great weekend. Don't flee the country or get arrested between now and Monday. Stay out of trouble." What a great guy. I did not get to experience the joy of serving on a jury. I did, however, sit through voir dire. There were 18 of us in the room. Two lawyers asked all kinds of questions, but only to the first 8 people. Then they asked the same questions to the next 8 people. The last two of us obviously bonded over the fact that we were young, female, and clearly serving no purpose in the room. Good times. I learned that most New Yorkers (if jury selection pools are an accurate representation of New Yorkers, and I believe they are) have way more interesting jobs than I do. I sat in a room with an engineer who designs Starbucks stores around New York - how cool is that!? I was tempted to ask if she could hook me up, but she was dismissed before I had a chance. Apparently, the plaintiff's attorney in this slip-and-fall case didn't think an engineer for a corporate giant would be sympathetic to his client's complaint that the defendant had not complied with sidewalk safety codes. Ah, well.

Now that it's mid-April, I am thoroughly ready for summer. If only the weather would catch up with me. Come on, global warming! (Just kidding- global warming is a serious issue, and I should not be egging it on.) To get in the spirit, next weekend, Nittany J and some others and I are running a 5k for penguins at the Bronx Zoo. Seriously. And then the next day, I'll be back up in the Boogie Down to watch the Yanks kick some serious Canadian booty. Yay for summer (or early spring, which really feels like winter). I know you were concerned, so I am happy to report that I'm holding fast to my previously mentioned desire to run a half marathon. This week, Small Asian Friend and I entered the lottery for the Nike Women's (Half) Marathon in SF! I've wanted to run this race since I lived in LA. It combines so many amazing things - Nike, SF, Tiffany dog tag necklaces, music, and running outside. Pure joy. Please do me a favor and dedicate your 11:11 wishes this week to my successful lottery pick. I thank you.

Cheers to chocolate covered matzah and Easter bunnies.

Beware, the Ides of March.

March is supposed to go in like a lion and out like a lamb, right? Well, I think my March has it backwards. Things started off super smoothly this month. I was scheduled for a week in Vermont with Sister and the rest of the B clan during the first full week of the month. I was sailing through a fairly quiet week at work, and there were developments on the romance front about which I was pretty stoked. Yup, March came in purring (or making whatever sound a lamb makes) like a perfect little angel. I won't go into detail, but suffice it to say that my March road has become a bit bumpier than I anticipated a few weeks ago. It's cool, though - it's nothing my Ke$ha pandora station and a few nights of $2 margaritas can't pick me up from. Onwards and upwards, I say..

Now that that's out of the way, let's rewind to my week in Vermont. I jetted up to Burlington and met Sister for some relaxation (read: hours and hours of Veronica Mars episodes) before hitting the slopes later in the week. A brief word of advice: don't fly with a gigantic hangover. Especially when a 400 pound man is sitting next to you eating snacks (loudly). It's not pleasant. What IS pleasant is strapping on a pair of crisp white goggles and wearing cushiony high socks while looking totally bad ass on a snow board. Oh yes I did. I tore it up on the magic carpet hill. Until Brother and Sister convinced me to ride the ski lift with them. Brother and Sister are actually bad ass on snow boards. I just look bad ass (until I start tumbling all over the place and find myself somehow wrapped around the fence of a nearby condo). But I think looking bad ass is half the battle, no? Okay, maybe it's a third of the battle. I knew things were going quickly down hill (ha) when we got to the top of the lift and I took out Brother and Sister in one fluid motion. (Sorry, sibs!) They recovered a bit better than I did, and it took them about half the time to make it down the mountain that it took me. But, man, it was great fun. Oh, and I have never been more grateful to be wearing a helmet in my entire life. Snowboarding (even poorly) is so terrific, I might even retire skiing for good. That'll depend, though, on whether I can remember what a toe turn means when I show up next year. Here's hoping.

I'm sitting on my couch watching American Idol as I write this post. And I have to say, I think they should just fast forward the entire competition and have America vote off 5 or 6 people tonight. Pia is clearly the best girl. Hands down. Way down. She's flawless in her performance, gorgeous, poised, and ready for super stardom. So if a girl wins and it's not Pia, then America has no ears. That's the only logical conclusion to be drawn. The guys are a bit trickier because their styles vary so much. Paul is pretty fantastic with his Ray LaMontagne voice and his crazy chicken dance. And Casey's self-deprecating humor is enjoyable, but I really want him to shave his beard and cut his hair. Is that so much to ask? He makes us look at him every week; he should make that experience a pleasant (word of the day?) one for all of us. However, he just sang Smells Like Teen Spirit, so I have to give him props for that, even though it in no way shows off his voice. The country dude looks like a mix between George W Bush and Howdy Doody, and I can't think about anything else when he's singing. Oh, there's also the rocker guy who wears a tail coming out of his jeans. He's pretty sweet. But he wears a tail. So basically, Pia should win. Also, they're singing songs from the year they were born, and there are WAY too many kids on here who were born in the 90's. They shouldn't do this theme anymore if the contestants are going to be so young. I think it alienates the audience. One more thing: Pia should win.

In other news, tomorrow is St. Patty's Day. So I should go pick out my green outfit. Cheers to drinking work lunches!

The deal that died.

Yesterday I felt the kind of jubilation I haven't felt in quite some time. I think it's the kind of jubilation we sang about in Ebony Singers back in college. (You know, the Jesus kind.) I received some stellar news (and it had nothing to do with the Knicks acquiring some phenom from Denver). Yesterday the deal I was working on died. Normally, such an occurrence might cause some frustration or even mild feelings of sadness. But finding out yesterday was one of the best moments of my life. (Okay, that's a huge exaggeration. But it was delightful.) Picture yourself as an associate at a law firm. Now picture yourself working until 2 or 3am for five days in a row. Over what would ordinarily be a 3-day weekend. (I totally understand if you can't picture yourself being/doing these awful things, as I could never picture myself being/doing them until now. And I am appalled.) NOW, imagine that after those five days, when you are tired of canceling plans and you are crossing your fingers and toes that you can go on the dates you have scheduled later this week and go to Boston for the weekend to see Small Asian Friend and others, you receive an email forwarded from the client that says "We have decided not to go through with this transaction." JOY! Pure joy! Nothing but joy! Well, if you have a really good imagination (or have ever taken acting classes where you learn to become the character - method acting or something like that), then you, too, feel my joy.

Moving on. I received another wonderful piece of news yesterday. We at Senioritis (i.e., Brother) designed a tshirt and entered said tshirt into a tshirt design contest. Yesterday we found out we were chosen as a quarter finalist (by whomever judges such things), and now the 8 remaining designs are to be judged by the public in an online poll. If we win, everyone running the Lincoln Tunnel 5k race on April 17 will be wearing our shirt! (And, we'll get an ipod. But the shirt part is way cooler.) SO, if you are a good friend or a loyal follower (or just someone who is trying to get me to like you), then you will go to this link: http://www.sonj.org/LawEnforcement/LincolnTunnel/Contest.php and vote for our design! (It is clearly the best one, so you shouldn't need me to tell you, but I will tell you anyway - it's the yellow one with Lincoln running. Apologies for the shameless self-promotion, but THANK YOU! Every vote counts, or something like that.

Oh, and while we're on the subject of Senioritis (and further self-promotion): we were in a photo shoot. For a magazine. (Yes, we are very hip.) A few weeks ago, Brother and I headed up to a very sweet loft studio space in Chelsea, donning our hipster best, and posed for photos to show "Inc." readers the brilliant minds behind Senioritis. We were interviewed, too. I thought about bringing along the cardboard cut out of Hermoine Granger which has graced the office for some time now and sticking Sister's face on it to make sure she got into the frame, but I decided it might look odd to ride the subway holding a life-size Hermoine. (Sister, we gave you a shout out, so hopefully you'll make it into the mag, too!)

A quick aside and nod to Harry Potter: last night I went to a bar that reminded me of how I pictured The Leaky Cauldron while reading the Harry Potter books back in the day (before the movies came along and told me how to picture The Leaky Cauldron). It's called Ninth Ward, and it's in the East Village. I recommend it for a drink or four (two-for-ones until 8pm!) if you find yourself in that 'hood. Oh, and the bathrooms have fun names. Okay, that's all I'll say.

And on that note, I'm off to the Knicks game (to see whatever this new guy's name is...gosh, these tickets are so wasted on me - sorry Knicks fans)!

Why I hate florists.

Sex and the City taught me that it's super hip and trendy to be a young single woman in New York. At least until I'm 35 or so. I haven't had a problem being single since moving back to New York. Bars and online sites are full of single 20- and 30-somethings (and Rhianna even made it cool to admit singledom in public). But when Valentine's Day rolls around, suddenly the rules all change. Every morning, I emerge from the subway near my office and am slapped in the face with a gigantic sign strategically placed in front of the local florist counting down the number of days until V-Day. Do they think the hundreds of subway riders walking up those stairs each morning won't notice the oversized hearts, roses, and other red and pink flowers cluttering the flower shop windows? Do we REALLY need a sign effectively saying "Just 10 more days until everyone around you gets to eat cheap chocolate and celebrate a day of love with another human while you sit at home with your netflix"? (Note I do not actually feel sad about being single. I just think spontaneous showings of love are way better than obligatory roses on an arbitrary date. But what do I know?).

I should also note that I am being judged by medical professionals for being single. I was at the dentist last week, explaining (and learning about) my occasional nighttime tooth grinding and jaw clenching (in times of stress, that is), when my (new) dentist asked if I have a significant other. I looked at him like he was crazy for asking such a thing at such a time, and answered "no, doctor, I do not have a significant other," and he looked slightly apologetic as he responded, "oh, well sometimes if there's someone else in the bed, the other person can hear the clicking of the jaw." I said, "oh, good to know." what I wanted to say was, "you asked if I have a significant other, not whether someone else sleeps in my bed from time to time!" Such totally different questions, but I refrained. I figured asking him about every tool he picked up and joking with the technician whenever my mouth was free of apparati was enough for him to have to handle during my first visit. There's always next time.

This morning I found a grey hair mixed in among my bangs. I had a haircut scheduled for today, and I knew I absolutely had to get rid of the grey before making my appearance at a new salon. I mean what would my new stylist (can I call her that even if all she did was a trim and blow dry?) say if I showed up for our first meeting with a grey hair? I feel like that'd be the equivalent of going to the dentist without brushing my teeth first. Such a person would be fodder for gossip the rest of the day. Anyhoo, I've heard that pulling out a grey hair makes three more grow in its place. That can't actually be true, right? I risked it. I guess now we'll just have to wait and see.

Have I mentioned that my Four Point Plan is going remarkably well? Well, it is. With a few minor setbacks, of course. For instance, I sent in two applications, both of which caused great joy and excitement, only to discover the next day that one of the positions had already been filled. (It was listed as available the day I submitted my application and then filled the next day, and I had a brief irrational moment of thinking I was the one filling the position, and I just hadn't been told yet. If that's the case, I still have not been told. I'm not holding my breath.) but there are lots more applications where that one came from (yeah!), and I have faith that I will soon(ish) be free of the golden handcuffs! Hurrah!

Tonight I dined with Small Asian Friend, Boston Brit, the Bride, and several others at this very cute, very delicious place in Brooklyn called Juliette. Go there. You won't regret it. Especially if you order the pear dessert. I think Brooklynites are my people. I already own so much flannel, I think I should probably just move there. But then when I think about the fact that men with beards don't exactly do it for me, I start to reconsider. But, oh! Independent coffee shops and hole in the wall restaurants and live music everywhere (oh my!). Now if only the city learned to plow the streets of Williamsburg as thoroughly as Wall Street, we'd be in business. Maybe someday.

Fights with food establishments.

After nearly a week of vacation, I have to go back to work tomorrow. What a bummer. At least planning vacation to end in the middle of a week means only returning to three days of work before another (hopefully work-free) weekend. (Fingers crossed.) So I spent the past five days getting my cider on in Boston with Small Asian Friend et al. and loving every moment of it. I welcomed the glorious game of squash back into my life with open arms (and only had to lie about my address twice in order to gain entry into the prestigious(?) Cambridge Athletic Club's pristine white courts). I walked the snowy sidewalks of Newbury, eagerly listening for "paahk the caah" references and watching small children climb out of car doors atop icy mini mountains of snow. I successfully broke in my new knee high boots (muchas gracias to Pops for waterproofing them last week), downloaded and then lost lots of apps for my newly purchased ipad (whee!), and refrained from firing up a microwave for the entire five-day span (note that this does not mean we cooked; we ordered in, went out, and skipped meals...thanks, Small Asian Friend, for starving me, and thus slimming my waistline). We also spent two hours in Sephora. Smelling perfume, then coffee beans, then a different perfume, then coffee beans...and on and on. Small Asian Friend finally decided on two new scents and then proceeded to talk about how good she smelled for the next day or so. (Oh wait, maybe that was me. Anyway...)

I experienced my first Pats game (using the word "experienced" loosely - as I spent most of the time flagging down our waitress, playing with phones that are smarter than mine, and pointing out sweat stains on the football players' behinds) in a real-life Boston sports bar, with real-life Pats fans booing and cheering in unison. The slightly sketchy older man standing with his back to me, with his hand down the back of his pants while watching the game gave the entire experience a very authentic feel. Oh, and I think the Jets won. Good times, indeed.

So I bought an ipad. And I think it's terrific. Truly terrific. Netflix, faceinhole, seamlessweb, fbook, and all kinds of goodies are just one click away! I've made great use of the streaming Netflix, 3G ghcat, and email "sent from my ipad." But I have yet to use that whole ereader function. Call me old fashioned, but I love books. I love the way they smell; I love the cracking sound they make when you open them for the first time. I even love folding over the top corner of a page to keep my place, or the bottom corner to mark a page I want to go back to and visit again. I hear that ebooks have many features that simulate actual book reading, but I'm skeptical. I guess now that I have this nifty device (which, incidentally, I am using to write this), I should probably give it a try. Who knows with these things? Maybe it'll even be 3D, and my corner folding self will love it. I'll keep you posted.

I believe I have mentioned what Small Asian Friend has termed "Beth Luck" before. This weekend, we decided to shorten it to "Bluck" to make it catchier and sound like something fun and interesting, rather than the quality of finding myself in strange and compromising situations that other people somehow manage to avoid. Anyhoo, allow me the pleasure of relaying a few of these bluck-y experiences I've encountered in the past few weeks. Here we go. A few weeks ago, I was supposed to work late. As I sat at my desk drafting letters (yawn) and rocking out to Pandora, the fire alarm began to sound. Usually, the fire alarm goes off for a few seconds, and then a muffled voice comes over the loudspeaker saying, "Attention. This is the fire marshal. This is just a test. This is just a test." This time, no such voice appeared. The alarm just kept going. And going. And going. After about a minute, I wandered over into my neighbor's office and asked her whether perhaps we should go investigate. We walked down the hall and reached a fairly potent burnt food (or burnt something) smell. There's not much more disconcerting when a fire alarm is going off than smelling something burning. My anxiety (which I like to keep safely suppressed) began to surface. We gathered the few remaining on our floor and walked towards the staircase and fire phone. Someone lifted the fire phone receiver and tried to call down to the front desk for instructions. No one responded. My anxiety level increased once more. We stood near the staircase, smelling the smell, waiting for instructions, when a man who works for the building entered the floor. We asked him whether we should evacuate, and he said he was looking into it. I got the urge to yell at him. What the h!? "Looking into it"!? I want to evacuate! He told us he was trying to find where the smell (slash fire?) was coming from. Meanwhile, the alarm was still going off. I edged closer to the door to the stairwell. I felt whether it was hot (a nod to my Hills East fire safety awareness training), and it was not. Suddenly, a flock of firemen, in full gear, carrying axes, emerged from the elevator bank. I took one look at them (noticed their rugged attractiveness) and made the executive decision that we were evacuating. Twenty floors later, I was safe (and shaking) in the building lobby. I decided working late that night was just not meant to be.

Later that same night, I found myself in Brooklyn. As I left the last location of the evening, in an area of Brooklyn completely foreign to me, I started down the street in search of a cab. (As a sidenote: cabbies need to learn that people in Brooklyn need rides, too. Please! Come pick me up in Brooklyn!) I had just started my walk down the street when a man called out to me, "Miss! Are you walking this way?" (pointing in the direction I had planned to walk). I responded yes, and he said, "Don't cross the street. Walk on this side. There was just a shooting up there." A shooting!? Ok, Beth, hide your insane and desperate fear. Play it cool. "Oh, really?" Nicely done. "Yes, so walk on this side of the street with me. Here, walk on the inside of the sidewalk." Hmm, is this man trying to save my life or make me trust him so he can mug me or otherwise have his way with me? Well, now that I've chosen to walk next to him instead of crossing the street and getting caught in the crossfire (gang war, I decided, was responsible for the supposed shooting I just missed), I guess my future is up to him. "So, how long have you lived in this neighborhood?" he asked. Do I tell him I don't live in the neighborhood and that I'm just trying to find my way home after making a nervous fool of myself at the end of an otherwise enjoyable first date? Or do I lie and make myself sound like a streetsmart lady whose knowledge of the neighborhood and men like him exudes from my every move? Obviously, I lie. "Not too long." We walk in silence. I wonder how fast I can run in my new knee high boots, and whether the ice on the ground will help my flight or slow me down. I scan the road for cabs. I see none. I see one! It passes me. I yell "TAXI!" I have never before yelled "taxi." In fact, I think it's silly when people yell for cabs in movies. No one does that in real life. The cab is stopped at a red light. A mound of snow stands between the cab and me. I begin to climb the mini mountain, and the light turns green. The cab starts to pull away, and I yell for it again. This time, my savior slash creepy companion whistles for the cab to stop. Glory - it stops! He calls "Good luck!" after me, and I have never been more grateful in my life. Sigh. It's good to be alive. (That was very dramatic. My apologies.)

If you've seen me out and about in rainy weather, you may know that I have the best umbrella known to man. Its spongey rubbery handle resembles a stress ball and keeps my hand from cramping up while weilding an umbrella through the windy streets of New York. Unfortunately, someone else noticed my lovely umbrella and its unique physique (ha). That someone stole my umbrella today. Right out from under my eyes. I dined at a midtown eatery, and upon entering (sopping wet yoga mat, umbrella, and shoulder bag in tow), I was greeted by a hostess who said she would take my umbrella. I am generally wary of giving up my umbrella since it is the best thing ever, but I acquiesced to her request and gave it up. I figured, we're in a neighborhood spot, with office dwellers escaping into the rain for a quick bite. They don't look like predatory thieving types. After my meal, I went over to the umbrella holder to collect it, and in its place I found a dinky little black piece of crap from Jones New York. I could have strangled the small woman who made me place my umbrella into the vicious hands of a fellow diner. But I was with company. She told me she remembered my umbrella "with the soft grip." She said she took it and put it in the umbrella holder. I said, "so it's your fault, huh?" And I could see the tears building in her eyes. I felt bad. So I gave her my number and told her to call me if some good samaritan returns my umbrella. I acknowledge this will not happen. I will now be toting around an extremely unfashionable Hogan Lovells umbrella. And I am very sad about it. On our way back from lunch, my lunch date and I saw a man lying on the sidewalk, attempting to retrieve an iphone dropped through the sidewalk grate, using a stick with something sticky at the end (gum?). My lunch date said to me, "well, at least he's having a worse day than you." So, so true. Thank you, lunch date, for such wise words.

I just found out I missed my firm's first soccer game of the season tonight. Whoops. Well, I'm technically still on vacation until tomorrow morning. This is going to be ridiculous. If you've never watched a bunch of lawyers trying to do athletic activity, you should. It's like taking the least athletic population around and weeding out the most athletic few of those. Like when I taught basketball at a performing arts camp. I'm 5'3". And I can't shoot. My basketball skills are lacking. Yet, I was still able to "teach" a bunch of artsy fartsy kids how to play. I'm laughing just thinking about it. I'm going to have to fish out my old diadora sneakers. At least I'll be the best dressed soccer player in the league!

PS - Is this the longest post ever? Possibly. If you've made it this far, you get a prize. Well done.

Christmas Cheer.

I would like to start off by saying that I am presently watching Extreme Makeover: Home Edition. Thus, I am crying. I am crying so much that if I were writing with a pen on paper, the paper would be so soaked through my writing would barely be legible. That was hyperbole. This is, however, the saddest show ever, and if it doesn't make you feel like the most selfish person ever, and make you feel bad for ever complaining about anything in your life, then you are heartless and conscienceless. (Also, I watched "Precious" with Sister last night. Re-read the sentence immediately preceding the open parenthesis and replace "show" with "film.")

I have not written much of late, and I am sad to admit it is because I have been working a lot. "What's a lot?" you may ask. Well, I got home from work at 430am last Thursday morning, and then returned to work at 915am. I think that's a lot. I slept for almost 14 hours Thursday night. I think that's also a lot. You might recall my mentioning the Four Point Plan in my recent posts. The more time I've spent at work, the more time I've spent thinking about Point One. I am working on cover letters, talking to contacts, and re-working my resume. I am too superstitious to actually tell you about the move I'm hoping to make until my applications are out (Yes, I awoke yesterday morning and said, "rabbit," and I even contemplated saying it more than once since it was not just the first of the month, but the first of the year, too!), but I will keep you posted once I start making moves. Be excited. I am.

Moving on to Point Two: unfortunately, I was not selected in the NYC Half Marathon lottery. Rumors spread like wildfire that there was some kind of conspiracy against those living in NYC, so as to improve tourism and make New Yorkers sign up for other, less desirable half marathons in the area. I know about ten people who entered the lottery, and only one of them was accepted. He lives in New York City. But he's from Indiana. So maybe they felt bad. (Oh, come on, I'm joking.) Nevertheless, I am still committed to my fitness goals. Who are you, New York City, to tell me I can't run a half marathon!? No one, that's who. Hmm, I'm sure I'll sign up for another one someday. In the meantime, I'm just running for fun. Oh, and focusing on sculpting. To that end, I bought the Jillian Michaels 6-week abs DVD at Target today. Watch out.

Point Three is a bit different. Point Three involves doing fun things in the city so as to meet new fun people (and potentially find fun people to date). I started doing this (running the pool table at a local bar (and exaggerating) and concert-going, for starters), but there's more to be done. I'm thinking of joining a softball league in the spring (college throwbacks are always fantastic) and going to visit my Brooklyn friends (because who can resist making friends with/dating plaid-wearing hipsters (aka Brooklynites)?) So, yes, all is in order, and it's only day 2 of 2011. Am I a rock star, or what? Oh, that reminds me... happy new year!

By the way, remember last week's blizzard? I think New York City did a fabulous job cleaning the streets. I did not fall once, and that is certainly a feat. Kudos to you, Mr. Mayor, for saving hips left and right. Also, it was 50 degrees today. I think it's time to start talking about global warming again.

In other news, I finally finished reading "David Copperfield." What a fantastic piece of literature. Finishing a book you've been reading for months is a truly bittersweet moment. It's like cooking (or having someone else cook for you, in my case) something totally delicious, and having leftovers for days, and finally finishing them. It's so sad that something so great has come to an end, but you feel such a sense of accomplishment. (By the way, Sister, I threw out our leftovers from last week today - sorry!)

Sister came and visited me in the city for Christmas. It was super fun - we went to Small Asian Friend's parents' place for Christmas Eve (our presents were even under the tree!) and partook in quite a feast. We watched "Easy A, " which I recommend when you're up for a lighthearted outsider-in-high-school movie, with a raspy-voiced redheaded lead who is not Lindsay Lohan. Sister and I made the dreadful mistake of going up to see the tree at Rockefeller on Christmas Day. If you ever have the urge to do this, stop. You should probably go the day or two after Christmas, on a weekday where other people are at work. Christmas was like being at Disney World during public school vacation (without a friend/family member in a wheel chair who provided access to the front of lines). And at the end, you don't even get to ride anything. You just get to take a photo in front of the tree, with an inevitable head or two chopped off and fat face. We did, however, feel the Christmas spirit. While waiting in an enormous line at Starbucks for some peppermint hot chocolate and chai, we saw a homeless man walk into the store, go directly to the refrigerated area, take an orange smoothie, and leave. He did say "excuse me" to the people in front of us. However, he neglected to pay (he was, after all, homeless). The people in line, including Sister and I, ooohed and aaahed and noted how wrong that was, but not one of us told anyone working there what had just happened. I guess none of us wanted to be the guy who did that - on Christmas. Then we came home and watched hours of Veronica Mars. It was lovely.

Yesterday I joined the rest of the B Family for our New Years Day jaunt up to Woodbury Commons to seek out the sales and score lots of new stuff. Success! If you live in New York, and you buy things retail here in the city, I urge you to hop in the zipcar and take a day trip up to Central Valley to do it up right. Isn't one of your New Year's resolutions saving money? Well, there you go. And here's to a great start to 2011. Bring it on.