You're getting colder

I went to yoga this morning in the rain, without an umbrella. This could have been remedied with a simple glance out the window, but since I was basically sleepwalking around the apartment, intelligent thought was not happening. It was actually semi-refreshing, as the weather has warmed up from the recent NYC horror show, aka "Saturday."

Saturday was so cold and windy that I felt like being violent towards someone. And who was there to fulfill this role? Why, Rob! Really, for some reason when Fall begins to turn into Winter and I remember how I used to live in mild and marvelous San Francisco, I begin to question the convenience of falling in love and moving across the country. Was it really such a great idea?

This evening we are headed to Arizona, where the weather is a delightful 80 degrees. My plan is to be nice to everyone.

The bullies of the bookstore

Rob and I went to a children's bookstore today, since everyone we know has had a kid in the past year. And if they haven't yet, they are about to. I am not kidding: 11 children have been born to our friends this year, with 3 more on the way.

I like to give books to the new babies. And Books of Wonder on 18th Street is a fantastic place, where they can recommend all sorts of perfect books depending on what kind of personality your new week-old friend may have. For shy babies, there are books on increasing confidence. For crazy babies, there are books about deep breathing techniques. For babies who like to entertain, there are books about barbecuing.

None of that is true. Except the part about the bookstore being great. They also do gift wrap.

On our way out of the store, Rob glanced back and said, "I'm not sure about having bookstore kids."

"Excuse me?" I asked, not sure exactly what a "bookstore kid" was.

"I was looking at those bookstore kids back there," he explained. "And if we have kids who hang out in bookstores, I guess that's ok. But I want them to be like...the coolest kids in the bookstore."

Pause.

"You know. The bullies of the bookstore."

"You want our kids to be the bullies of the bookstore?"

"Yeah. The strongest kids in there."

"You know this is going on the blog."

"No, it's not."

"Yes. Yes it is."

"The blog is not a place for you to 'out' me."

"Evidently you misunderstand the purpose of the blog."

Give it a Name

Today it occurred to me that when I married Rob, he officially became my ex-boyfriend.

Thoughts on the john

Why is it called a restroom? You don't go in there to hang out and relax, as far as I can tell. It doesn't really make sense to call it a bathroom, either, unless it's at someone's house and there's a bathing apparatus in there. But if you're out at dinner and you excuse yourself to use the restroom or the bathroom, I think that's kind of inaccurate. Unless you're going to lie down in the toilet for a while, just thinking about your life.

Just another manic Monday

Which means that I don't have much time to spend on a blog post, unfortunately.

This weekend my dad told me that he read an article advising that if you want to retain your job in these tough economic times, you should keep your vacation days to a minimum. I responded by quickly making sure Rob and I had in fact purchased our tickets for: Thanksgiving in Arizona, Christmas in Chicago, and--just for the hell of it--a ski trip in Whistler at the beginning of January. I then debated whether it was too early to get tickets to Miami for an it's-really-cold-in-New-York February trip.

The pitter patter of pissed off cat feet

My parents are coming to stay with us for a long weekend, and we washed the sheets in the second bedroom to prepare for this. Cause that's just the kind of people we are. The thing is, when the second bedroom is not being occupied by guests, it is known not as the second bedroom or the guest room, but as the cat's bedroom. So it's important that after you wash the sheets, you don't let the cats back into their bedroom because they will do things like christen the clean bed with their fur and vomit. It's how they show love.

We washed the sheets on Sunday and the door to the bedroom has been closed for days now. Smokey and Emma have spent their time hovering around it, willing it to open. When I get home from work, they typically begin crying, because they are so abused. I suppose in their defense, I have shrunk their tiny world by a good 30%.

So now it's Wednesday night and Smokey is doing this thing where he meows very pointedly at me, like he has important information to convey. And then he walks a few steps away and turns, as if asking me to follow. The first time he did this, I thought he was a genius. He was clearly trying to tell me something. Maybe Emma was in trouble! Maybe there was an intruder! Maybe he had scratched a poem in the cat litter!

But after following him in several circles around the living room and kitchen, I pretty much realized he's not a genius. At least not in a communicative or linear way.

Although he is something of an artiste when it comes to cat-bedroom hairballs. He's saving them up right now, I can tell.

The case of the missed yoga class

So here's what happened. I ate a nutritious dinner of red snapper with zucchini and black olive tapenade, cleaned up the apartment, did some laundry, showered, packed my yoga bag, set out my outfit for the next day, and went to bed. I was determined to start the week off with a 6:45am yoga class before heading to work.

Because you are allowed to shower at my yoga studio, but you are not allowed to wash your hair, and I had a benefit dinner to attend tonight, there was rather involved preparation the night before. But I was ready. So, I don't know what it was...the fact that the snapper was actually perch? The 2 glasses of wine that I had with dinner? General Sunday night confusion? I changed the alarm to 6am, but, like a total doge, I forgot to turn it on.

This morning, I woke up at 6:20am, far too late to make it to yoga across town. As I stood by the bed, halfheartedly contemplating going to the gym instead, Rob walked back from the bathroom, bodyslammed me, and wrapped me up in the blankets. I fell back asleep for an hour and a half.

It is entirely possible that I am not a morning work-out person. But as I am clearly not an evening work-out person, and I have no time during the day to work out, I may just have to come to terms with reality. I am actually a bed pillow.

The Reindeer Effect

First of all, YAY OBAMA. Obviously. Tuesday was enormously exciting--we were coming back from dinner when the results were announced, and the ecstatic reactions we heard coming from everywhere gave me goosebumps.

And yesterday, our first full day with a brand new President-Elect, was a great day for America and the World.

Let's stop to think about America and the World for a second. Here are my thoughts on that: No one in America or the World was as hungover as I was yesterday.

It was a devastating hangover, brought on by, well, alcohol. In its various forms and colors. Not really various forms, actually, they were all liquid. What is the point here? Oh yeah...

This article in the New York Times, which makes mention of Deep Thoughts, humor, the election, and "Hambone's affection for dolphins."

Big Day

Today is my 30th birthday, and as such, I feel compelled to share that I woke up with zits. Ok, to be fair, I saw them last night before I went to bed, but I was really hoping that as my 20s faded away in the middle of the night, they would take the zits with them. That didn’t happen.

So I took them to the polling place this morning and we all voted for Obama. We also voted for a few of the other candidates running for various offices. It was invigorating to see the neighborhood up and ready to perform their civic duty. It made me want to take the day off from work, but let’s be honest here. Everything makes me want to take the day off from work.

On my way to the office after voting, I listened to my voice messages. My friend Will gets the award for creepiest version of Happy Birthday. Seriously, if you were being stalked for months by a serial killer and he then drank a bottle of Blackberry Brandy, called you on your birthday and sang to you, it would sound exactly like this. But I love you, Will. Thanks for the call!

Get out there and vote, people. All I really want for my birthday is President Obama in the Oval Office, VP Joe Biden on his knee. Or in his own chair. Whatever.

Exercising my rights

Rob and I went to Chat and Nina's yesterday--Nina is on bedrest, pregnant with twins, so we were there to provide moral support and eat snacks. Chat's dad was there as well, and as the five of us sat in the living room, the conversation inevitably turned to politics.

It's ALL politics ALL the time these days. At dinner, on TV, in the office...even the cats are biting their de-clawed little toe pads trying to figure out how Tuesday is going to go down. For the record, I think the outcome is obviously Obama-oriented, that is if the polls and predictions are to be presupposed. But I see no reason to get cocky or complacent. Perhaps my vote doesn't matter in Blue New York, but that won't stop me from waiting in line outside our neighborhood elementary school to cast my vote. And apparently it also won't eliminate the atrocious alliteration affecting this post.

I can't wait to vote and I do feel excited and confident about the election results. But if, for some terrible reason, we wake up Wednesday with a McCain/Palin future staring us down, I told Nina I'm joining her on bedrest.