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.