Cocaine Tea and Seasonal Nudism

Winter has finally arrived in New York City. It is snowing tonight, the soft, sparkly kind of snow that makes everything sound quieter. And it's damn cold. My fingers and toes hurt just thinking about the weather outside. I have closed all the curtains in my apartment so I don't have to think about it. I just hate winter. It's full of disagreeable things, like heavy coats, dry skin, and stuffy noses. As soon as the temperature drops below 40 degrees or so, I will maintain a stuffy nose until it warms back up. Lots of snot and phlegm. Mountains of used tissues cover every surface of my apartment. Yes, I know that tissues are disposable, but for some reason, I feel compelled to save a tissue after blowing my nose and set it aside for later. There's always a clean bit left, and it's only until I cover every square centimeter of the tissue with boogers that I can be ok with throwing it away. It's gross, for sure, but it's good economics. One box of Kleenex may last me all winter.

Everyone at work has had the flu recently, so I am doing my best to avoid coming down with any form of this menace. I am drinking hot tea like an addict, and I even made my own formula last night with fresh lemon juice and chopped ginger. It was a little too strong, and I think it may have stripped some of the lining off the inside of my esophagus, but no flu yet. Tea is just great. I remember, when I was in the high mountains of Peru, downing cup after cup of mate de coca, a tea made from the leaves of the coca plant (yep, coca as in cocaine), to fight the effects of altitude sickness. That stuff is AMAZING and it wouldn't surprise me if it could cure cancer and/or baldness. It can certainly cure headaches, nausea, and a rotten mood. I think it's illegal here in the US, but on my next trip to the Andes, I am bringing back 14 boxes of that tea in my dirty sock bag. I have smuggled much contraband into this country that way. Nobody ever checks the dirty sock bag.

I also hate the clothes associated with winter. All those bulky layers and sleeves and extra fabric flapping around. I already hate sleeves, no matter what time of year it is. If I could live in just a tank top (pants optional), I would, no doubt. Sleeves always make me feel itchy. I habitually push them up past my elbows, and then they fall down, and then I push them back up, only to have them fall back down two minutes later, and the mad cycle continues. Also, I only own, like, three long-sleeved shirts because I can't be bothered to buy any more when I hate them so much. And don't get me started on sweaters. Or turtlenecks. Lord. I absolutely cannot abide a turtleneck. A friend gave me a cute shirt once that had a turtleneck, and I cut it off. I think comedian Mitch Hedburg, may he rest in peace, said it best when he quipped that wearing a turtleneck is like being slowly strangled by a really weak guy. Ditto for scarves. I would just prefer that nothing be touching my neck or arms, except maybe my hair, which sometimes feels nice. Also, I'm not a big fan of socks. Or shoes. Bottom line, clothes stress me out. I think this makes me a prime candidate for member of a nudist colony. However, I still cringe at the dimply boobs and bottoms that come flying at me from all directions in the women's locker room at the gym, and penises make me giggle like a maniac, so I may have to go blind first. Yep, if I go blind someday, I am definitely moving to a nudist colony.

This post is for David and Pedro, currently my two biggest stalkers. Thanks, boys, for your interest in my life and work. I'll let the creepiness factor slide as long as you keep reading.

I cooked something tonight and it didn't suck.

On Friday, I am going home to Alabama for five days, so until then, I am trying to eat everything in my kitchen. I would prefer to return to a clean slate/fridge. As far as creating a cohesive meal goes, the random assortment of foodstuffs lurking in the corners of my fridge would baffle even the most talented of chefs. And, being a terrible cook and endowed with a large imagination, my kitchen disasters are worse than most. I have pretty much come to the conclusion that if I think it sounds like a delicious idea, I should walk away from the stove immediately. If it sounds like a mediocre, boring, bland idea, then I'm safe. Dinner tonight was an egg sandwich and homemade garlic pepper french fries. I was pretty proud of the fries. I cut them up from an actual potato. They didn't crisp up or anything, so it's good that I like soggy fries. The classic egg sandwich, consisting of bread, fried egg, and mayo, is pretty hard to screw up, so that was edible too. Therefore, I consider my dinner a rousing success. I am celebrating by knocking back a pack of strawberry licorice. That's gotta get gone too.

I have a pimple on the back of my head. It is in my hair, and it's driving me crazy. I keep accidently mashing it with various objects, such as my hairbrush, my purse strap, and my fingers (not entirely accidental, as I keep trying to pop it). It is at a time like this that I really miss my mom. She LOVES popping pimples. She doesn't get grossed out or anything. If my pimple is still raging on Friday, my mommy will get it for me.

Liars are horrible people, and I may soon become one of them. The cost of my gym membership has become slightly unmanageable, and I am seriously considering telling the gym that I'm moving back to Alabama. If you relocate to a place where there isn't a branch of the New York Sports Club within 20-odd miles, you are relieved of your membership payment duties. And Alabama certainly fits that bill. Not that I will actually move. They will just think that I moved. Because I will tell them I did. And that will make me a liar. There's some paperwork involving "proof of new residence," which I'm sure won't be difficult to fabricate. With the money I would save in one month of not paying my ghastly gym bill, I could buy a mini trampoline. Which is definitely something my apartment needs. Plus, there are a million gyms in this city, and someone is always running a free trial membership period, so I could gym-hop for awhile until it's warm enough to run around outside again. The New York School of Capoeira offers a week of free lessons. That's where I will be heading first. To do some awesome dance-fighting. And also maybe to meet hot Brazilian men.

I am stressing about the two corpses currently at the top of my ant farm. They died in the tunnels, and it took the other ants awhile to pull them to the surface, so I've been strategizing for a few days. You see, if several ants die around the same time, the others will move them to a vacant spot at the top of the tank, creating a morbid little pile of dead bodies. My ant farm booklet told me that if I leave the dead ones in there long enough, the other ants, all females, will start piling nuggets of gel around them (Yes, I have a lady ant farm, made of blue gel and designed by scientists for a NASA experiment in space. Of course you are jealous.), covering them up in a mass grave. I don't want a giant ant grave in my lovely ant farm. So, I am obliged to remove the top of the tank and pick out the dead guys with my tweezers. Problem is, when the live ants sense the fresh air rushing through their tunnels, they all start having ant fits and running around like crazy people. The objective, presumably, being ESCAPE! I have to quickly ram the lid back on before any get out. These are harvester ants. They have huge jaws. The kind you could probably use to stitch up a wound like they do in the Amazon. I don't want those guys running loose in my apartment. Therefore, until I catch them all asleep down in the bottom sleep chamber of their tunnels, the dead guys remain. Well, one just sorta twitched. So maybe she ain't completely dead yet. Or maybe she's becoming a zombie ant, and will soon begin to hunt and infect all the other ants in the tank. One can only hope.