Friday, April 29, 2011


After a hasty run the other night, made hastier by the impending storm (because nothing downs your mins-per-mile like a column of cumulus coming at you), I realized that it's true- spring is here. Mostly. After a long, awkward segue of schizophrenic weather patterns with a light sprinkling of devastation around the country.

I did not get up at 5am to watch the royal wedding, but believe you me I have YouTube'd and CNN'd and Google'd my way through the highlights. The dress, the walk up the aisle, the waves, the balcony's hard not to get caught up in something so downright timeless. I'm a bit of a known Brit-o-phile anyway (mmmm, Cadbury's and Jaffa Cakes....) but even people who normally wouldn't give a toss (see what I did there?) about such things seemed tuned into this event.

Say what you will about the monarchy, the ridiculousness, the nepotism, the strict adherence to tradition...there's more than a little element of relatable romance to Kate and Will. For starters, I don't think many royal couples met as hard-partying flatmates. They broke up for awhile, but still went to events together, and then got back together. She's cute, he's the prince my generation grew up with. The public dissolution of his parents marriage was a fairy tale gone wrong. His mother's untimely death was one of the great significant news stories of our youth (along with the Challenger, OJ Simpson, and the Gulf War). We want happiness for this guy. We want to cut him a bit of a break. And, all media showiness aside, Kate and Will seem to have struck a balance of romance and friendship that's enviable for anyone, especially a royal pairing.

For those of us who weren't born when Di walked the aisle, this is the royal wedding we all tuned in to see. And a beautiful wedding it was.

Side note: I really want to party with Prince Harry. Does he not seem like a bit of a badass joker? I'll bet he can shotgun a beer.


So, spring is here, William is wed, I've nearly made it through Working All Of The Days, and the City Paper Brew Fest is tomorrow. Huzzah.

Tuesday, April 26, 2011

Having to Work All of the Days

So, I went to Philly.

I decided I hadn't had enough vacation. After three days back at work, I determined that I needed to "just get away."

Also, I had not been to the Mutter Museum in two years, and I wanted to make sure it was still gross.

It was.

So this week, it is back to, as Jaunt says, "working all of the days."

The torture.

After two weeks of 2-3 day work weeks, it seems nearly impossible to condemn oneself to a five-day week. It just seems so overwhelming.

Still, I have finally unpacked my suitcase(s). This is Progress. And I did Laundry. This is also Progress. I felt the need to capitalize the "L" in "Laundry" because it was that epic.

I'm 90% sure that the reason the cats are acting like total asses is because I have been gone so much.

I'm sorry, cats.

But, really, was it necessary for one of you (FIONA) to puke little white foam puddles everywhere and freak out my roommate who now believes you to be possessed?

What was the deal with that?

And (FIONA) thank you for racking up another $140 vet bill. For the vet to tell me that your little tummy is upset. My tummy is upset, I chew on some Tums. Your tummy is upset, you spew forth a level of sickitude that might have shocked a nurse in a 19th century cholera tent. How is your tummy even big enough to hold 19 piles of white foam? How is this not rabies?

I would have been grossed out had I not just returned from seeing the Soap Lady.

I forgot about the Soap Lady until I eating a lovely lox bagel. This is not the time to be remembering the Soap Lady. Now I'm grossing myself out.


Working all of the days.

I'm sure I need to write up a Part III of Vegas Vacation but dealing with a cat that needs an exorcism and Working All Of the Days this week. Also trying to determine if I need a liver transplant or not...leaning towards yes...

Wednesday, April 20, 2011

Next Stop, Vegas Please- Part II

Lest you think I spent the entire trip sulking like an Angsty Party Girl, allow me to speak briefly of the high points of the trip (drinks with Harvey "Celeb Fit Club Trainer" notwithstanding).

Catalano's dad scored us a sweet time share. It really was delightful; three bedrooms (I think...there might have been was a confusing weekend), kitchen, dining area, living room, three (or four?) full bathrooms, and a sweet jacuzzi. Mrs. Spaz and I put our bathing suits on and occupied said jacuzzi one evening with a bottle of wine. It was truly magic. The best part about having a kitchen (aside from the fact that we turned it into our own makeshift bar where drinks went for the hefty price of FREE) was the ability to have food on-hand. If Legs hadn't stocked the fridge and cupboards, I believe it's entirely likely we might have forgotten to eat all weekend. Except for....

Oh God, the eats. We went to Happy Hour at Koi on Friday night and had some lovely sushi rolls at half price (half price being nine bucks a pop). This was lovely, but nothing compared to the two buffets we devastated.

On Saturday we went to brunch (at 3pm, mind you...) at the Bellagio. I am well aware that there are starving people in this world; that countries are pained for fresh water and fresh eats. I felt guilty for a full four minutes until I popped a salmon mousse tart into my mouth and finally clued into the fact that there is a time and a place for human compassion, and a sensitivity for world hunger has to be checked at the door of the Bellagio along with any tight-fitting pants you might deign wear. I wore what I referred to as my "Eatin' Dress," which comfortably allows for some serious eating.

I mean, serious. Sushi, rack of lamb, prime rib, ahi poke, Kobe beef, steamed pork buns, pizza, Beef just went on and on. When one conjures images of buffets, it's usually of overcooked, overstarched college food sitting out to bake into oblivion under heat lamps. This is not that.

Cocktail shrimp posed sexily on mountains of slivered ice molded to look like bowls. Grilled quail splayed on a bed of rosemary. The whole thing was nothing short of food porn- and all of it up for grabs. (Although Legs's sister did comment that my mom's Beef Wellington is better than the Bellagio's...a compliment she took as the highest of praise, and rightfully so.)

And the desserts.

Oh, the desserts.

Everything dressed up to look like designer couture, complete with hardware. Chocolate buttons, marzipan bows, edible gold etching. These desserts made other desserts look like trusty farm hands. I shall now scoff at things like Milano cookies, which are overweight and clumsy compared to the slivers of shortbread and chocolate delicately placed headfirst into an air-whipped bed of chocolate mousse.

Sunday, we hit up the famous Spice Market in Planet Hollywood. Same deal with the "Eatin' Dress." Same deal with the ridiculousness. I wish I had brought three extra stomachs with me. I would have gladly paid Delta to check them.

I'm well aware of the dangers of skin cancer. I know that tanning is a blight upon humanity and has even prompted legislation (the "Anti-Snookie" bill preventing teenagers from tanning and asking for higher taxes on tanning services) .



One of my most favorite things is Lying Out With A Book. I'm like a cat. Give me a puddle of sun, a nice towel, and I'm in it to win it. And our hotel came with a gorgeous outdoor pool. Multiple pools, in fact, and one very nicely reserved for "Adults Only," and outfitted with a tiki bar. My kinda place.

I probably laid out in the sun for all of three combined hours this weekend and walked with a tan like the one I got after four days in Ocean City last summer.


Well, funny you should ask. My masseuse (I'll get to that...) informed me: "Enjoying that sun? Don't stay out there too long. There's no smog here, you know. Nothing to block pure sun rays. Coming straight through. You'll burn in less than ten minutes."

It was at that moment that I realized that Vegas, despite being disgustingly full of sin, is a delightfully clean city.

Say what you will about hookers and gambling, there ain't no smog. Or grime. Sure, the tap water tastes a bit off (it is the desert), but after having spent a lifetime on the east coast and four years in what is ranked one of the dirtiest cities in America (sorry, Baltimore...) it was rather a treat to breathe in a lungful of humidity- and smog-free air.

So, the pool. The laying out. Oh, the luxury. Which leads me to....

Mrs. Spaz and I, and Catalano and her sister opted for the couples' massage package that included a hot stone session. Nevermind that it was couples' massage. It was a deal we weren't gonna pass up, and no one asked any questions about the all-girl pairings.

And there was nothing even remotely romantic about it, believe you me.

Our masseuses were a pair of what I assumed to be sisters, bred of the same football coach stock and hailing from Flatbush. And, lemme tell you, while I'm sure either of them could crush my very being between her pinky and ring finger, they had the lightest touch of any masseuse I've ever had. Which was good. Because they took one look at us, raised their twin eyebrows, and said, "We are not going to do the deep tissue."

"Why not?" we pestered.

"It releases too many....toxins." They eyed us up and down. Hungover and guilty, we were.

Let me tell you things you should not do before getting a hot stone massage. First and foremost, nobody should be getting a massage after two days of hellish behavior in Vegas. Talk about toxins released. Secondly, nobody should be getting a message after falling asleep in aforementioned direct sunlight for an hour after two days of hellish behavior in Vegas.

You know that sick, cold sweat, headachey feeling you get from sunburn-slash-heatstroke? Combine that with severe self-induced dehydration, and then lie- FACE DOWN- on a massage table and have someone put hot stones on your back.

Oh, the torture.

I paid someone fifty bucks to put burning hot stones on my sunburned back, thus causing me to sweat out what I can only assume was pure champagne and sin.


I saw black spots before my eyes for roughly two hours afterward. A shaft of sunlight came in through the hotel window, and I shuddered and curled up in the corner. If anyone had approached me at that point, I might have yelled "I PUT THE LOTION ON MY SKIN."

Stay tuned for Part III.

Tuesday, April 19, 2011

Next Stop, Vegas Please- Part I

There's not too much I can say about Vegas that hasn't been said by any of the nearly 40 million people that grace the Strip each year. It's flashing LCD lights, it's quick, it's loud, it's nonstop, and it's pure spectacle.

Thankfully, so are we.

The first night, we went to Tao. It was shoulder-to-shoulder packed, and from the looks of it, most patrons had given up any sense of attempting social graces and commenced immediate lap-sitting purely to save space.

But somehow, we began graduating upwards in the club. First, we were being Night-at-the-Roxbury'd down on the dance floor, then somehow a velvet rope was lifted, and our group was escorted onto the second, less-crowded tier. The one populated by bottle service and paid dancers.

$9 for a domestic bottle later, another rope was lifted and we found ourselves in this dude's VIP lounge. I used to be addicted to Celebrity Fit Club. Seriously. Taking in bottle service with Harvey was pretty high on my list of top moments this past weekend. Say what you will about random celebs, at least they let you drink their free booze in a place where a vodka soda will run you a stifling $12 a pop (before tip).

Eventually we tired of the oomf oomf oomf and Katy Perry remixes and decided to head to the casino. In my mind, it was probably around 1 or 2am. I had forgotten two things:
1. We'd gotten into Vegas around 11pm. Then gone to dinner. Then gone out.
2. Nothing ever closes in Vegas.

It wasn't 1 or 2am. It was probably closer to 4:30 when we left the club. Which, given that we had all just flown in, was approximately 7:30am to our internal clocks.

At approximately 8:00am EST, a friend from Baltimore called me, not knowing I was in Vegas.

"Hey! I know it's early, but I just HAD to tell you before you head in to work-"


"I said I know it's early, but I had to tell you what happened-"


"Um, like 7:50, why? Aren't you getting ready for work?"


"What? Where are you?"


"Um, yeah..."


Such is Vegas.

Day Two was also a blur of activity. I think we all got a whopping 4.5 hours of what I'm sure was completely rejuvenating sleep before we headed to the pool. I might have gotten a nap in between the shot Catalano's sister got us and the pina coladas. Maybe.

After the to Planet Hollywood to blow some cash. I was out of chips within about five minutes of getting to the casino and clearly didn't know The Rules of playing roulette. The dealer kept barking commands at me, and I felt shifty and uncomfortable. I didn't know any secrets or classy lingo. I just put chips down and she took them away from me and the freakishly affectionate couple next to me kept winning things. The whole thing made me angry, and so I stormed off to the penny slots where I proceeded to immediately lose five dollars.


I'd been filled with thoughts of cashing out, walking out of Vegas with pockets stuffed with cash. COME ON, THAT HAPPENS ALL THE TIME.

I'm still getting over it.

What happened next is a blur of insomniac-like haze (you know, when you haven't slept in 2 days and you start to feel like you housed a bottle of NyQuil). There was dinner at Koi. There was champagne. There was the Getting Ready (the best part of traveling and living with girls- the Getting Ready), there was an intense discussion of which strip club to take Catalano, there was a limo, there was more champagne, and then there was a Very Rude Stripper.

I did not want to go to the strip club.

I did not want to go to the strip club, and I was tired and cranky.

I made this very evident by sitting in a chair and emitting the word "huff." Arms crossed. Someone, I think Mrs. Spaz, gave me some more champagne, which briefly placated me. And then I got angry again when Very Rude Stripper came over and began using my chair as a dance pole.

"Hey," he purred, leaning in to me. "What's your sign?"

"Gemini," I barked. I did not like this shaven-greased-up-man-dude, but I didn't know yet that he was Very Rude, and so I was only mildly bitchy towards him.

"I'm a Taurus. We get along." At this point, Very Rude Stripper was now straddling me, his mouth very near my neck. This was Uncomfortable. I did not like this.

"You want a dance?" he breathed into my ear. I became Very Angry. And Very Grossed Out.

He was clearly having quite a good time, whereas I was the one suffering. And so, I calmly informed him: "You should pay me."

Very Rude Stripper did not like this one bit. In fact, he disliked this so much, he nipped me on the neck.



I believe this might have been the moment that pushed me over the edge. I spiraled from Angsty Party Girl straight into Three-Year-Old-Tantrum.

I believe we left shortly afterwards.

Stay tuned for Part II.

Monday, April 18, 2011

Shake the Glitter Off Your Clothes

(Insert random photo here.)

As soon as I get all of the casino chips out of my suitcase, find my liver (which I'm pretty sure I might have left floating in the jacuzzi), and get more than five hours of sleep, I shall post (some) of the ridiculousness. A quick perusal of my Twitter feed should tell you all you need to know at this point.

Except for the part where the stripper bit me.

Yes, that happened.

Viva Las Vegas.

Wednesday, April 13, 2011

Gimme Some Cash Out

In preparation for the Vegas trip, the group has amassed key survival materials/strategies.

1. Leg's sister went to Costco and purchased a case of 5-Hour Energy, and a case of some fizzy powder packets containing tiger blood and the sum caffeine of forty seven cups of coffee per packet that is meant to be added to a glass of water. In sum total, we now have over 270 Hours of Energy to be doled out amongst the pack. I believe this will be enough, given that we will be in Las Vegas for 65 hours.

2. Fake eyelashes. I can't underscore the vast difference a pair of falsies makes in pictures. If done right, (that is, cut those spiders in half and only apply on the OUTSIDE of your upper lash) it's possible to bypass anything that smacks of cross-dressing and be tasteful and subtle boosts to what nature already blessed you with. I once had a roommate that swore that a modest set of chicken cutlets (I think you know what I mean by that) had the same effect.

3. En masse, we have invested many hours of crucially analyzing outfit choice. Our methods of rating ranged from "Kim Kardashian" to "Dirty Pirate Hooker" to "Little House on the Prairie." As you can imagine, any outfit that shied away from these categories was entered into the final round before cuts were made based on similarity to someone else's outfit, packability, and versatility. No one can say we aren't practical. And, we can all sleep soundly knowing we avoided the embarrassing moment of running into a Lady of the Night wearing the same outfit; by the same token, no one will confuse us for a Half Pint.

4. Cameras, and strict rules upon how to use them. What happens in Vegas stays in Vegas; unless it's Facebook-worthy. And even then, it must go through strict Channels of Approval before posting, and even then, there must be explicit permission granted before anyone goes tagging willy-nilly. This isn't a free-for-all, and several of my friends have sneaky, paparazzi-tendencies to take questionable photos of people doing questionable things. Any by "several of my friends," I primarily mean "me."

5. I promised my parents today that I would kindly only post certain aspects of the trip on my blog. This kind of outright, anti-First Amendment, gross censorship is completely and utterly OK by me and I fully support this. If I wouldn't tell my parents, it sure as hell doesn't belong here.

6. That having been said, I'm still disappointed in the fast "No Hookers" rule. I'm still arguing my point that no one needs to engage in anything other than research. I just want to hear some stories! And who would have better stories than a Vegas hooker? Even a retired one! Ooooh- a retired one would be even better. I would be curious to know how she spends her days. Yoga? Transcendental meditation? Teaching those pole-dancing classes that are so hot in every fitness center in the US right now? Cooking? I MUST KNOW.

And so, Glitteratis, tomorrow Book Club takes its show on the road and migrates, en masse, out to Vegas. 270 hours of energy, and fake eyelashes batting away....and nary a petticoat or hot pant in sight. We are pure class.


Sunday, April 10, 2011

Trouble the Water

One awesome thing about three girls living together: amassed, we now have 7 Netflixes coming to the house. Rifling through the pile in the living room, I found one of Jaunt's- Trouble the Water.

It's been just over a year since I was in New Orleans, and the reverberations are still reverberating. I still read and watch anything I can get my hands on that addresses Katrina and the aftermath, still email with people I met down there asking for updates, and still look for ways that things are improving and how mistakes might not be repeated.

Trouble the Water is, so far, the single most terrifying body of footage about Hurricane Katrina I have seen. You can look at stills of damage, you can view helicopter shots of people swimming through dirty levy water, and you can hear stories, but until you see that water rise from the viewpoint of a handheld gripped by someone lodged in the upper beams of their attic, I don't think you can really get your mind around the devastation of that storm. And, as if I couldn't be more enraged about the aftermath, the story continues to unfold nastily and frighteningly.

Friday, April 8, 2011

Vegas Update

It's rainy and cold and disgusting. I have 2 work days left before vacation after today. Also, it's Friday.

The emails fluttering back and forth on the Vegas chain have started to include words like "Pussy Cat Dolls," and "Kardashian." No one has specified which Kardashian, but I hope to God it's a drunk one. Or- even better- a Bruce Jenner. Remember the episode where he "goes out" with his "boys?" In his corner, however, is the fact that no one can tell when he's completely Wasteface because his facial features still don't change due to the massive amounts of plastic surgery he's had done. He makes Joan Rivers look like Mother Earth.

I digress.

In short- I am ready for VACATION. As in...brain-wants-to-check-out-ready.

I don't want to write a memo. I want to fantasize about eating lobster at a brunch buffet with Bruce Jenner and knowing I can make fun of him without fear of facing retribution because he pretty much never knows what's going on anyway.

Sigh....less than a week.

Also, my friend and I are on the same flight going out and coming back and we have a layover on the way there in Salt Lake. We are already taking bets on whether or not we can become Sister Wives in the 55 minutes between flights.

Thursday, April 7, 2011

One Week to Vegas

Since 2007, Book Club has been the axis around which my social world has spun.

No, really.

The idea was conceived when I met Catalano. She and I were bridesmaids in Mrs. Spaz's wedding, and met shortly after I'd moved to the city from Florida. I knew very few people outside of a couple of college friends. Catalano had moved back to Maryland from Los Angeles a few months prior and was still single at the time. Shortly after I met her, she began dating her now-fiance.

I'd had a small book club in Tampa that met every few weeks for wine and gelato at an Italian cafe near my house. Catalano was keen on the idea to start our own book club in Baltimore, and volunteered a couple of her college friends and roommates. We started out as a core group of about seven girls. Five of those girls are still active book club members, nearly four years later.

Book Club began as a Tuesday-night affair, every two weeks. But, as the wine and gossip began to flow more heavily, Tuesday nights spilled into Thursday nights, Friday nights, Saturday nights. A couple of girls dropped out and, seeking new members, we placed a cheeky ad on Craigslist. Jaunt, who had recently moved to Baltimore from Pennsylvania, found said ad. She agreed to meet us, and we came up with an exit strategy should she turn out to be creepy. After all, who the hell answers an ad for a boozy Book Club on Craigslist? We were certain Jaunt would turn out to be a strapping bachelor in his mid-5o's with a delightful comb-over and a pocketful of double-entendres and invitations to his "beach house."

"If s/he's creepy," we agreed, "Book Club ends in thirty minutes, we all ditch him/her, and join up at the bar down the street."

Instead, we got Jaunt. Who is now, happily, my new roommate.

We picked up other girls as well. Some stalked Book Club through my blog, some came on as referrals from other members, and some (like Joel) simply happened to see a bunch of girls being loud and obnoxious on a Tuesday night in a wine bar and arguing over modern feminism and decided he must be a part of the action. (Joel is still the brave, sole male in Book Club. Whenever we go out to dinner, it's Joel and eight girls. I think he's quite proud of this fact.)

As Book Club became less "club" and more "urban family unit," we tossed around the idea of going on vacation, unofficially as a group. We've done weekends in Ocean City, but a few years back someone dropped the idea of Vegas and it's sort of floated around in our miasma for awhile.

And then Catalano got engaged.

Two words: Bachelorette. Party.

Hence, Book Club Goes to Vegas. While not an officially sanctioned vacation, and sadly not everyone was able to go, it's still the culmination of years of friendship here in Baltimore. I've done just about everything with these girls; from running errands to meeting past and current boyfriend(s), or Friday night dance parties at the gay club to weekends at the beach. Moving to the city was a lonely, difficult, startling experience. Finding this group of friends changed everything for me and, I think, for most of them as well.

In preparation for Vegas, emails have been flying. And, as is only appropriate, a list of Rules is being drafted bit by bit. So far, the following have been established:
1. I am not to let Mrs. Spaz out of my sight, as per Mr. Spaz's orders. This is the blind leading the blind as Mrs. Spaz and I have been known to rile one another up into tailspins of terrible behavior.
2. Catalano and I are not to let Legs fall down or lose her purse. This will be a full time job.
3. No hookers. Dead or alive. (I argued mightily against this one. How fun would it be to pool our cash, hire a hooker, have her come to our room and tell us her life story and/or secrets of the Vegas underground while we drink champagne and compliment her on her Lucite heels? I was overruled. Lame.)
4. No tigers. Dead or alive.
5. If your fellow teammate is passed out, apply sun screen for her. She'll thank you later.

Other rules to be drafted, voted upon, and established upon arrival.

I can't wait.

Wednesday, April 6, 2011

Schweet Schweet Schpring

**WARNING: This entry is not about spring. It's about gross bodily fluids. Read on, and don't say I didn't provide adequate warning.**

Spring is in the air.

Or, at least, it was for approximately 4.7 hours on Monday.

And the defaulted immediately back to gloom-and-doom 40-degree cloudy nonsense on Tuesday.

You tease me, Spring.

But this morning marked the first of the outside morning runs. For the past five or so months, morning runs have been solely occurring on the treadmill at the gym. While I have no problem running at night in Baltimore after work, running in the mornings when it's still dark out is arguably more questionable.

But this morning, the sun was up at a reasonable time and even though it was a chilly 42 degrees, I got in a nice run through Federal Hill and around the Inner Harbor. Delightful, really.


I was never a spitter until I became a runner.

And there is something about running out-of-doors in cold weather that gets the juices flowing. There is something even juicier about running out-of-doors in cold weather in the springtime, with those lovely early-morning clouds of pollen that arise to greet the sun.

However satisfying it is to work up a nice hauk, I can't get over the digustingness of it. Having run a leg of the Baltimore marathon last fall as part of a relay team, I can attest to the sheer grossness of running as a sport in general. Running a marathon and have to go, and the next Port-A-Potty isn't until Mile 7? Just go, man. No trees around? Whatevs. Pull over to the side and get it done. And, yes, this includes other bodily functions.

Something about running makes your body want to expel things. Sweat, primarily, and spit. But other things, too. I'm sure every runner has seen that viral email photo circulating with the guy from the Boston (or New York?) marathon, running for America against the wind with the remnants of his last four meals running down his leg.


Thankfully, I have never done such a thing. Although the September 11th 5k was a particularly painful course for me given the sudden and extreme cramps I developed (for no reason other than the fact that I'd neglected to have any coffee that morning, so I've deduced). I've also never experienced that hallowed trademark of serious runners everywhere- the puke-and-rally. Not to say that I won't. I'm told that most runners, at some point, will puke. It's almost inevitable. But not yet, not for me, and I'll fight it to the very last if I have to.

But it's true, your body expels things as you run, and for me this manifests into an extremely un-ladylike display of public spitting. I can't NOT spit when I run. Hence my vast preference for running out-of-doors as opposed to a treadmill.

Important note- running inside does not produce as much expulsion as running outside. Temperature, I'm sure, has a great deal to do with it. Also there are no trees dumping pollen on me inside the gym. So far.

Spitting and running go hand-in-hand, and this is something I've grown to accept. I'm not yet, and hopefully will never be, to the point where I would finish the race at all costs without stopping and just allow bodily fluids to go where they will with no regard. But spitting...that I will do. And now that I've gotten the hang of it, and learned to give it some force and distance, it's a great deal less embarrassing than the girly little "PTOOOTS" I used to try that would wind up all over me.

Velocity is key.

Anyhoodle, so spring. Yes. I've decided I'm done with socks this year, and refuse to wear them at all costs (except when running, of course) so if Mother Nature could comply with my personal choices so I can stop being cold, that'dbegreatthanks.

Sunday, April 3, 2011


When she moved to San Francisco, Snap gifted me many things.

Among them, her collected library of photography from grad school which approximates somewhere around five thousand prints. I'm sure all those lovely friends who helped me move a few weeks ago were thrilled to see all the boxes of Snap's Lebenswerk amongst my neverending possessions.

Also in this treasure trove, however, and entrusted to me are her middle and high school diaries.

Snap has asked me to give a toast at her wedding.

The potential here is just staggering.

In other news: getting settled into luxurious new house with luxurious bathroom all to myself and luxurious stairs (that don't scare the hell out of me with steepness and narrowness) and a luxuriously large kitchen and other luxuries. How luxurious.

In other news: Vegas with Book Club in two weeks.

In other news: 80 degrees tomorrow? Yes please. Although this authenticates the rumors flying about that there will, in fact, be no spring this year. We will transition directly from damp, bitter, 40-degree disgunstingness to direct summer with high humidity and pounding heat. Lies, I had thought, but apparently my opinion was not solicited.

In other news, Pandora has been very good to be lately. Although a friend of mine recently pointed out that NO MATTER WHAT genre/band you have, Pandora will ALWAYS throw in the "Over the Rainbow" cover by Israel "IZ" Kamakawiwo╩╗ole'. It pops up on my Indie Boys station (Kings of Convenience, Andrew Bird, Belle + Sebastian), my Friday-night Katy Perry Station (which apparently Bruno Mars and Far East Movement hijacked), and even snuck its way onto the Christmas station I had running back in December. It's like the Kevin Bacon of covers. It finds its way into everything.