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I shouldn’t call it punishment, but sometimes it feels like it. I’m doing Couch to 5k.

I finished my third week on Saturday and I’m honestly kind of surprised that I’ve made it this far. The first few days I thought for sure that I would die, but I can actually feel myself getting stronger bit by bit. And I’ve been really pushing myself to finish the jogging intervals no matter what.

I’ve never jogged as regular activity. When I was a ballet dancer, it was generally discouraged because of the risk of shin splints and the different muscle use (read: your thighs might get too big). So, learning to jog is very humbling. And I think it’s really making me recognize that, while I’m not old, I’m definitely not as young as I used to be. I feel pretty certain that if I had decided to take up jogging, say, five years ago, it wouldn’t be that big of a deal. Now, my knees hurt and my breathing sucks. The 30ish pounds that I’ve put on since I started grad school and my main physical activity became typing and freaking the hell out* dance gloriously around my mid-section as I start to resemble Fred Sanford during one of his claims of The Big One.

The game has changed for me. I was very in shape from ballet when I was younger and retained a lot of that through a good portion of my 20s. Picking up a physical activity wasn’t A Thing. Now it is.

I had actually been toying with the idea of doing the Couch to 5k for a number of years after a friend on LiveJournal mentioned it. And I made an attempt last year which resulted in me deciding that I don’t like treadmills for much the same reason that I was terrified of escalators when I was little. I mean, I don’t REALLY believe that the treadmill is going to eat me, unlike that automatic foot-eating monster in Gimbel’s that forced my mom to go the long way to find a safe and non-hungry-for-tiny-toes elevator. But the speed that I had to go to run was just slightly too fast and remember one time thinking, “I really should have put that emergency clip thing on my shirt. This could end poorly.” Plus, the first few weeks of C25K have a lot of switching back and forth between running and walking, and that made for a lot of button pressing while hyperventilating, running, and trying not to fly off the treadmill and into the bench weights.

I’m not doing much in the way of calorie restriction or anything. Just eating healthy foods when I’m hungry and trying not to snack too much. A few people have told me I’m looking good and I’m just going with that for now. My scale has dust on it.

I’ll start week four hopefully tomorrow. I was going to start it today but we went roller skating on Saturday and I have a monster blister on the bottom of my foot. Sexy.

*By the way, my school was just ranked the 8th most stressful school in the country by the Daily Beast, which isn’t exactly The Source on such matters, but whatever, it’s documentation that I slayed that particular dragon and/or am certifiable for attempting such a thing.

I’m pretty sure that every spring around this time, my brain goes to work blocking my memories of how stressed I get. This is always an incredibly busy time for me at work and yesterday I was thinking about how the three springs prior to this one, I was taking two graduate classes (and getting As). I really can’t even begin to imagine, nor do I want to, how completely freaked out I must have been. And I really don’t know how I didn’t a) flunk out of grad school b) get fired or c) permanently alienate my family and anyone who had the misfortune of coming into contact with me.

I voiced this concern last night. “You were annoying, that’s for sure,” replied the husband. Gee, thanks.

That saying that God will never give you more than you can handle might have some truth to it, provided that God or some universal force does, in fact, exist and determines exactly what pile of shit we’ll fall into and God or this universal force has either a drinking problem or is just sadistic and prickish (because, really, WTF?). My evidence for this is that the baby has been pretty well-behaved up until this year.

He’s not up to anything really delinquent. All of the flies in our vicinity still have wings and he has not seen the inside of a juvenile detention center. But something in him realized that some bad behavior would no longer send his mother completely off the edge so he decided to try some out.

A few weeks ago, I received a phone call at work from his teacher, who sounded so completely DONE that I very nearly offered to buy her a drink. The baby had incrementally raised his level of douchiness over the preceding week or so. At first it was mostly small, isolated incidents of not listening, but by the time I received the call, he was nearing Lord of the Flies levels.

I listened quietly as his teacher, who I know is a reasonable person with as much patience as one should have in a second-grade teaching position, listed the increasingly assy things he had done. I wasn’t entirely surprised. A lot of it was stuff that we struggled with at home, just amplified by the presence of other 8-year-olds.

I apologized and immediately set up a parent-teacher conference, screamed via email to the MamaPop writers that I was sending him to Dutch country, and then the husband and I started crafting the crack-down.

We drew up a contract that outlined the behaviors that had to improve considerably over the period of two weeks and the privileges that would be removed during that time. No DS. No Wii. No Cartoon Network. Earlier bedtime (which will remain in place because I think he might have been a little sleep-deprived, contributing to his behavior). No arguing. No whining. Doing what he’s asked to do the first time. We would evaluate his performance in two weeks. If he had improved, he would start to get some of his privileges back. If he hadn’t, we would take away more stuff: no TV, no iPod, even earlier bedtime, no excursions with grandparents. No fun or joy, basically.

All three of us signed it and posted it on the fridge. We explained to him that it’s bad enough that he wasn’t behaving well for us, but we were disappointed/PISSED that he wasn’t behaving at school.

He got it. He cried, mostly because he was going to miss his DS, but partly because he felt pretty rotten about screwing up. A couple of times I’ve explained to him exactly how and why I get stressed and upset and how his behavior affects that (ie, I’m just trying to make a nice life for us and it’s hard and you being a jerk makes me feel like crap) and while still over his head, I think it twinges his empathy. So that’s good.

By the time we went for our parent-teacher conference, his teacher informed us that he had done a 180. So, I think I’ll go ahead and put a W in our column.

I don’t know. It felt kind of severe, but we really wanted him to understand how not cool it is to behave like a jackass. It’s an important life lesson, you know?

Of course, it might not be entirely his fault. Last night, while looking through the baby’s iPod, the husband said to me, “Did you put The Chronic on here?”

“Um…maybe?”

It appears I was not paying close attention when adding music to the baby’s iPod and added an album that, while undoubtedly a classic and one that I hope will be part of his regular rotation in the future, is not entirely appropriate for an 8-year-old and his spongy brain. Tonight’s project: re-evaluate iPod contents.

Last week, I opened the door to hustle the baby to the bus stop, and gasped when I saw a big, flat package on the porch.

My diploma. My Master’s degree. Live and in the flesh paper-and-faux-leather-case.

Faced with a cartoonish amount of student debt (when I think of the total, which I’ve been advised not to do, I automatically picture Scrooge McDuck as the symbolic beneficiary as he cackles and holds two large sacks with dollar signs on them), and the *^%#(*^ dumb luck of graduating during the worst economic climate in generations, the husband and I have both been experiencing some sort of…buyer’s remorse about our degrees. I may have whined about this here before, but we’re both dealing with bummed out thoughts about aiming too high or something and that we’re as embarrassed of our student debt as we would be if we had burned through credit cards or invested in swampland or something.

Self-esteem: we has none.

Anyway, it’s over. No going back now. And in May, I’ll don my cap, gown, and Master’s hood and participate in a little good ol’ pomp and circumstance. And then figure out what to do with this monster.

I offer my hand for scale. The thing is huge. Also, please note my mad Photoshop skills. I’m not so paranoid, but for whatever reason, posting a picture of my diploma with my full name on it seemed like a bad idea.

I don’t know what I think about fate and powers greater than us and whatnot. I know that the universe is not something that I can comprehend but that sometimes it seems to work for a minute or two.

With me trying desperately to get out of the emotional k-hole that I had been in, the husband suggested last week that we take a quick trip down to D.C. There were a number of things that made it the perfect time to go: I had already planned to take a day off on Friday, two DJs that we like were playing there on Friday and Saturday, and the sister-in-law’s birthday was on Sunday. Unable to come up with a decent excuse not to (and believe me, I tried, because it’s too hard to wallow in unfamiliar environments), we set off on Friday afternoon after a stop at the baby’s school for a quick good-bye and supplies for his weekend with various grandmas.

We were there for less than 48 hours, but I haven’t had that good of a weekend in awhile. All we did was stay up all night, eat amazing food, and take naps.

Friday night, not long after finally arriving at my sister-in-law’s apartment, we headed to the Warehouse Loft to see Ron Trent. The space was really cool: dark, low-key, open, and an amazing view of the city. I had had to employ the tried-and-true vodka and Red Bull elixir since I had been up since 6:30 and the event was supposed to go until 4 a.m. I was a little rowdy, but mostly just danced and goofed off and tweeted things like

and

At the bar, the SIL and I met a guy named Ezra who hadn’t purchased enough drinks to close out his tab and offered to buy us some. I immediately invited him to come to Detroit with us in May. (Note: I am easy.) This round of drinks…if I were somehow in the position of instructing a blindfolded person how to pour it, I would probably tell them, “Okay, VOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOODKA redbull.” The sister-in-law provided much needed commentary on my reaction to this concoction.

Classy. However, we both agreed that this was still a better performance on our part than the time we went to some art thing downtown and I exited the bathroom proudly holding a drink that I had found on the sink, which we then shared while looking at a Blackberry that the SIL had found on a chair and intended to keep.

The husband and I were somewhat dismayed to realize that D.C. isn’t really a late-night kind of town. 24-hour eateries and ATMs were kind of scarce, but we did end up at Georgetown Cafe, where we had really REALLY good food, including the best chicken shawarma on the planet.

I spent part of the next day recovering but we headed out to Ray’s Hell-Burger in Arlington upon the insistence of the sister-in-law and her boyfriend. I’ve been thinking about the burger that I had there ever since and both the husband I resolved to never eat another burger ever again unless it’s at Ray’s. Or Five Guys. This is a good resolution, I think. We don’t eat burgers often, but this should keep us down to a strict allowance.

We had a really ridiculous encounter with one of DC’s notorious motorists. Some jackhole in an SUV attempted to merge/cut us off by just basically driving into the side of our car. We yelled and when the jackhole had an opportunity later to pull up beside us, he started screaming at us and then called us white trash because we had a donut on our wheel. We were actually on our way to the AAA to get our flat tire repaired. But, that guy was probably right. That nail found its way into our tire because we’re white trash. Nice attempt at insulting us without stopping to see if it would even be offensive. The husband sometimes seems to exist in between episodes of road rage, so the situation escalated and soon other motorists were cheering us on. I begged the husband to stop, noting that we were in DC and chances were good that the dude was a gun or finance lobbyist or something and could very well shoot us and/or manufacture some kind of foreclosure on our house.

Anyway, we went out to see Theo Parrish that night at…some place…that was like an ethnic club or something? It was near a lot of Dominican hair salons. It was fun and the space was also very cool. The crowd was weird. They seemed somewhat taken aback by the stuff Theo was playing, then a bunch of people left around 4:30 a.m., leaving the grimy devotees.

Sunday we went to Lebanese Taverna. My god. Also so amazingly good.

We managed to avoid any chaos that might have been present in the city because of the looming health care reform vote. It was weird to think of us just chilling on the sidelines while this big fucking deal went down (tip o’ the hat: Biden). Health care is a sensitive issue for me. I was on Medicaid when I had the baby because that was my only option. If we hadn’t had that…I can’t even begin to think how utterly ruined we would have been. I know that it’s complicated and it goes far beyond my anecdotes. Just…let’s try not to be assholes about something that people NEED, alright?

Anyway, the trip made me feel better. And spring is helping, too. Anytime that the husband and I get a chance to be on our own, I always feel super re-connected to the dude. I’m lucky. I know.

Me and the husband, who may or may not be from Pittsburgh. I can’t tell.

The other night, I had just drifted off to sleep. Our cat was curled up against my tummy, purring away and giving me some extra warmth. I was reaching that really good point of sleep when a small, familiar voice woke me up with a phrase that always makes me panic:

“Mum. I don’t feel so good.”

It was the baby, obviously, and his stomach was upset. He’s never been very good about describing his symptoms, but from what I could gather, he’d just experienced one of those vomit-burps. I’m sure you know what I mean. It starts out as a burp and then takes a frightening detour and though you emerge with your digestive system intact for the moment, it freaks you out. Am I getting ready to spew? Or was it just a slight malfunction? I need to know how much I need to dread the next few minutes/hours and whether or not I should move my operations to the bathroom.

I felt my stomach drop, particularly when the baby squeezed out a few tears and rested his head on my chest (partially because I felt bad for the little guy and partially because if there was going to be spewing happening, I did not want his face mere inches from mine).

I interrogated him on the state of his stomach (“Do you think you need to barf? Have you pooped today? On a scale of 1 to 10, how gross does your stomach feel?”) and urged him to try going to the bathroom. I gave him a Tums, even though I wasn’t sure he was old enough to have one yet, and after a few minutes he declared that he thought he was okay.

He climbed back into bed and I asked him if he wanted a bucket, just in case. He did. I climbed back into my bed and stared at the ceiling and waited and listened.

Though I’ve gotten better at handling digestive eruptions since I’ve been a mom, I’m still prone to panic at the thought of one of us coming down with any kind of stomach bug because I can’t deal with vomit. And, of course, because I’ve turned overthinking things into a sport, I’m sure that this speaks volumes about me as an adult and a parent.

I can remember at least two occasions in which the baby has puked and I have handed the reigns over to another parental figure with shaking hands. Once was when he was about a year old and we were living with my mom. It wasn’t the first time he had been sick, but for whatever reason, I stood in the doorway of his room, wide-eyed, unable to move, and asked my mom to please clean him up for me.

Another time was about a year ago and we had made the unfortunate decision to eat at Wendy’s earlier that evening. Regurgitated chicken nuggets are, I’m pretty sure, the scent of Hell. I couldn’t deal and the husband heroically did all of the dirty work.

Because of our recent crushing blows, I’ve been really upset. Like, really upset. And I’m questioning every aspect of my life and how I’m doing. My evaluation of myself results in pretty low marks and my inability to deal with vomit or even the threat of vomit threw me.

I don’t remember my mom ever having trouble taking care of me. I can distinctly recall a particularly nasty stomach bug that I had in third grade that seemed to go on for days and had me spending my nights in my parents’ bed, next to my mom, and when I had to get sick I would KICK her. She would wake up and hold back my hair and direct me toward the bucket. Calm, sleepy, unfazed, and certainly not dry heaving behind me.

I don’t know that I could do that and it’s just the latest in a long list of things that I’m feeling…incapable of. I’m having trouble going to sleep at a reasonable hour, getting up at a reasonable hour, doing laundry, participating in any cleaning activities, exercising, dieting, getting lunches and clothes ready for the next day, figuring out what I want to do about job stuff, raising a man, being a partner to a man.

Am I just overwhelmed? Or am I just incapable?

It began to snow.

“Listen – that soft, tinkling sound – like tiny, crispy shards of glass shattering on the snow.”

“You know what it is?”

“What?”

“That sound…It’s the STATIC being discharged by each snowflake because the air is so dry.”

— Blankets

One night, a few weeks ago, when the snow was still above my knees, I walked to the corner store to get something to drink.

On the short walk home, I became so sad that when I got to my house, I had to stop at our front steps. Something was gnawing at me.

I walked around to our backyard and stared, marveling at how alien the landscape looked, white and soft but dead. I spooked the neighbor’s dog who was out for his constitutional in his yard and he began to bark frantically. His mistress popped open the screen door and squinted at me.

“I think I startled him. I’m sorry. I was just taking a look out here.”

“Oh, that’s okay,” she said, apparently mostly sure that I was who she thought I was. I walked back to the front of the house since I figured continuing to just stand in the back yard late at night might concern her.

It was so quiet. The only sound was the whir of a dryer vent somewhere near by, shooting Bounce-scented fumes into the night.

I turned around and looked down toward the main street and decided to lie down. The snow was high enough that I could easily sit without having to go very far. I plopped down and back and spread my arms out.

The sky was too cloudy to see the snowflakes falling from it. Instead, they appeared to materialize out of nothing a few inches above my face, narrowly dodging the steam from my nose.

I closed my eyes and listened and could hear the tinkling of the flakes crashing into one another as they landed, discharging static.

After a few minutes, I got up and went inside, back to my boys.

Perhaps I had felt it coming that night. A few days later, we got the news that the husband’s job, the one that was so perfect, the one that was going to allow us to march forward in life, had fallen through.

This little corner of mine has been quiet because I’ve been so sad. And my sadness has a way of rotting and becoming so ugly. I’ve been so nasty and doing what I can to make anyone who has the audacity to come in contact with me feel at least a little bit as bad as I do.

I know it’s not the end of the world and I know that things will get better someday. But we were right there and we were so cautious to get excited about it until we were sure that it was going to happen. And then when we were sure, or so we thought, we started making plans and getting ideas. Now we’re back where we’ve been. Static. And there’s a lot of sighing going on.

The husband and I are not big Valentine’s Day people. Sometimes we do stuff to mark the occasion, but usually we don’t. This year, we had some tentative plans, but we got some bad news a few days beforehand and were just too bummed out to care.

For whatever reason, the past few years, I’ve started to develop really strong opinions and feelings about holidays and how people view them. Around Christmas, I kept getting really irritated with Christmas haters. I know Christmas as an institution creates expectations about really heavy things like family, joy, and the like. And I know that a lot of people have shitty things happen to them in life that make the Christmas microscope on those heavy things way too much to deal with. I just…I don’t know.

Valentine’s Day also has me cranky.

The baby’s school was closed all last week and I haven’t heard of any plans that the school has to make up any Valentine’s Day celebrations. That bummed me out. I always really liked making my Valentines box and as long as no one is excluded from Valentines, it’s fun having a party with your classmates.

I think that’s telling. Perhaps Valentine’s Day, to me, is more of a kids’ holiday, even though kids aren’t (or shouldn’t be) big on the romance. The cutesyness of it makes me think of crushes and puppy love and passing notes.

Anyway, I think I’ve nailed down a list of behaviors that people exhibit around this holiday that drive me bonkers.

– Being super into Valentine’s Day. “I got roses and a four-star meal and a beautiful, heartfelt card and breakfast in bed and diamonds and wee!” No, I know. You like doing something special. Cool. I think this is more me bristling at how Valentine’s Day is another arena for public displays of affection, which make me very uncomfortable in almost whatever form that they take. One of my biggest regrets about Facebook is that I sometimes catch, via my news feed, whatever moronic baby talk people I know and (used to) respect say to each other. I’ve seen whole arguments and make-ups (though not the sex, thankfully) take place on wall-to-wall interactions and I don’t get it. Why do that? And if Facebook is your main communication tool, why not message your significant other? I’m not going to act like I’m totally private about my relationship. I write some mushy stuff here and, heck, our wedding was one big make-out fest. But for the most part, I feel like constant PDA signals some degree of insecurity in the relationship and a need for outside validation.

– Being super anti-Valentine’s Day. Granted, the previous group is hard to take, and if you are less than thrilled about your romantic status, Valentine’s Day can be just another obnoxious obstacle to getting on with life. People can be very idiotic. And if you find the super-pro-Valentine’s crowd to be indirectly antagonistic, do your best to ignore them. They’re suckers.

– Complaining about how commercial it is. Um, unless you live in a society very different from ours, everything is very commercial. For every single aspect of our life, there is something you can buy to aid or commemorate it. Find something interesting to gripe about.

– Stating that, for you and your wonderful schmoopie, everyday is Valentine’s Day and/or lecturing people that everyday should be Valentine’s Day. I don’t understand this assertion. Valentine’s Day should be more like any other day? Or every day should contain some worship of how awesome you are? Nah. Shit happens and some days you are so thoroughly OVER your significant other because life can be really trying sometimes. And, really, unless there’s something seriously wrong, don’t lecture people about how they should carry out their relationship or how it should be more like yours.

– Sending flowers to the workplace. Yawn. Also, it has this…sinister undertone to it. Because while it may be partially intended to brighten your loved one’s day, the other motivation is to make co-workers jealous and, really, why are you thinking about how others perceive your expressions of love? Grow a pair.

Last night, I told the husband, “Whoa, work is closed AGAIN tomorrow!” marveling at the effects the recent fubar weather conditions had had on the city in general. As a result, we’ve been in the house mostly non-stop since Friday.

A few hours later, he said, “So, do you have work tomorrow?”

I thought for a minute that maybe I was in Mulholland Drive.

“No, I already told you I didn’t.”

“Oh. That was today?”

I knew what he meant. What day was it? How long had we been here? Where was everyone? Perhaps the news reports were all pre-recorded to dull panic and the Snowpocalypse had actually been the Apocalypse. And everyone important was sealed in a bunker somewhere. And the real panic wouldn’t set in until we realized that there were no more french fries anywhere. French fries could be extinct right now and we wouldn’t even KNOW.

These past few (I’m not going to attempt a guess at the precise number) days have been pretty wild. I don’t remember much about the last time that we had really significant snowfall like this, which was back in 1993. I only remember that it hit on a Saturday and my mom and I drove into town anyway for my ballet class. There were about 6 other people there total, when normally there would have been a few hundred cycling in and out throughout the day. We couldn’t generate enough body heat to make the cavernous ballet studio not tortuously cold so we all went home, which my mom tells me was a harrowing drive.

This morning, I looked outside and had to laugh. It’s like we’re living in some CGI movie. And everyone seems to be acting correspondingly daffy.

For instance, a woman parked in front of our house Friday night. Saturday morning she came by and tried to dig it out but just couldn’t and I told her it was fine to leave it there until she could come get it because our car was still stuck at my mother-in-law’s house and it would be a day or so until we could park our car there.

At some point on Sunday, she came and got her car but put a chair in the space. In front of our house.

This seemingly innocuous act made our heads explode. If you’re not familiar with the Pittsburgh Parking Chair, I direct your attention to this timely article in the Post-Gazette.

Technically, she did dig out the spot and under a more liberal jurisdiction she would have claim to the space. BUT she KNEW it was not her space to have because we talked about it and we permitted her to leave her car there. If I had known she was just a space pilferer, I never would have agreed. I would never move a parking chair, because I am not a jerk, so she had essentially check-mated me into giving her our space.

This snow is turning people into lawless savages. Today it’s the parking space. Tomorrow she’ll probably try to eat my brains.

There have been other signs that people are collectively losing their shit. Yesterday a woman knocked on the door and we had the most bizarre conversation. She asked which car was mine and I pointed to ours, which was resting in our horrendously angled driveway that the husband had to shovel out because SOMEONE had taken the space in front of our house. (Getting the car to the house was a whole separate ordeal that took several hours and resulted in two flat tires and a close brush with frostbite. I don’t want to talk about it.) After we established which car was ours, the woman proceeded to pepper me with non sequiturs to the point where I was questioning the sanity of both of us.

“Did you see the woman?”

“What?”

“With plastic bags?”

“Um…no?”

“Thank you.”

“Anytime.”

Under the best of circumstances, I have a sinking feeling that life is but a slowly unfolding zombie movie. When you throw in three feet of snow, it doesn’t do much to comfort me.

It’s also been really disheartening to listen to everyone whine about the effects the storm has had on city operations. I just don’t understand the outrage. I am not the biggest supporter of Luke Ravenstahl’s administration, but I don’t see the city’s response as “dropping the ball.” These are not normal conditions. These are quite exceptional conditions and would bring even the wealthiest cities to their knees. Under normal circumstances, I think the city’s response and road clearance rates are pretty decent. But there’s an ENORMOUS amount of snow out there. Just figuring out where to put it must be a logistical nightmare.

The public transit system has a Twitter account that has been absolutely amazing keeping riders informed of route changes and delays and as far as I can tell has responded to everyone that has thrown a question at it. Not only that, the people running the Twitter account have been extremely courteous to abuse thrown their way. I understand that it sucks standing outside in the cold, waiting for a bus, and then being stuck on that bus for hours, but please. Look around. Road conditions worsen faster than they can be improved and everyone’s impatience to get back to normal doesn’t help. Is it really any wonder that navigating buses through that is a losing proposition?

The only way through this is with cooperation. If you can stay inside, do so. If you’re an employer, don’t pressure your employees to risk everyone’s safety by making their way into work. If you have to go out, assume that everyone is doing everything that they can to keep you safe and to keep life functioning as normally as possible and respond accordingly. Don’t bitch.

Although, all of that hot air might make the snow melt faster…

It’s just disheartening to see people not sucking it up. For every Good Samaritan tale of people helping each other out or forging their way to work so that we can buy milk and bread, there is a huge chorus of whining that makes it not seem worth it. I would hate to think that we would need to experience a REAL disaster to gain some perspective.

Hello, from the paralyzed tundra formerly known as Pittsburgh. I won’t bore you with yet another series of pictures of people standing waist-deep in snow, because, really, there’s no new ground to break there. It’s snow. It’s white. There’s a lot of it. I will insert a little slideshow that you can view or not at your leisure. No pressure.

So, my big emotional post the other day about how our new life was starting today? Yeah, it’s been put on hold a bit. Not from the snow, but from some…I don’t know…HR matter that pushed back the husband’s start date a week. No biggie. And because I am paranoid, I verified with the husband that this was not some passive move. And it worked out well, because my work is closed today (unheard of) and the baby is off of school at least today and tomorrow. Aside from slight cabin fever, it’s been pretty nice to stay holed up the past few days, cuddling and watching TV and whatnot.

Really, I don’t know when things are going to be normal around here, especially since there is more snow coming down the pike. I’ve never seen anything like this.

On the upside, it was kind of fun exploring everything on Saturday. A lot of people went out for walks, taking advantage of the fact that you could just march down the middle of the mostly useless streets. We saw a few ATVs, a snowmobile, and one guy on a snowboard. We stopped into the new coffee shop on Brookline Boulevard, Cannon Coffee, and I nearly died from happiness. I’ve been moaning since we moved here that we needed a good coffee shop and now we have one. With pastries and sandwiches and excellent beans and cozy places to sit and wireless internet. I see myself spending some serious time there.

I’ve heard from various sources that you’re supposed to get your hair trimmed every six weeks. This sounds nice and all, but I’ve always fancied it to be excessive, both in terms of maintenance and cost. Granted, I tend to let things go longer than I should, but usually get my hair cut maybe twice a year.

My most recent trim was back in September and I went to another salon on the main boulevard in my neighborhood. The one that I first went to last summer, the one that the husband feared would give me poofy bangs, was fine, but they seemed slightly put out that I was messing with the age curve.

So, in September I went to another place that served a slightly younger clientele and got a haircut that I wasn’t sure about at first, but turned out to be just fine. And it got me parting my hair slightly off-center, which, when I look back on 2009, will stand out as one of life’s big events. What Master’s degree? DID YOU SEE MY PART?!?!?

So, with my ends looking mighty unhealthy, I headed down to the same place on Saturday. I wanted to keep the little side bang, take off a few inches, and get some layers.

The haircut portion of my visit was fine and I addressed the de rigeur pitching of Redken products with aplomb.

When it came time to dry my hair, the stylist said, “Now, last time, we dried your hair straight. Could we try playing up your curl this time?” Eh, sure, go for it. I always have stylists dry it straight because it always looks so smooth and pretty, but change is good, right?

Well, 5 curl-defining products, a diffuser, and a curling iron later, I found myself staring at this:

The stylist, bless her heart, was so excited about the Bon Jovi masterpiece atop my head that when she asked me, “Do you like it?” I had to reply, “Yes, of course!” I normally wouldn’t endorse lying, but like I said, the cut was fine and this style would go away just fine. In the meantime, I just tried to stifle my laughter and wondered if I could find neon spandex pants at the thrift store.

When I walked into my house, the look on the husband’s face was one of horror mixed with whatever contortion happens when you try to stifle laughter. I couldn’t contain myself and cracked up.

It’s calmed down considerably since I washed it, but if you’re in need of a groupie for your 80s revival band, I’m available.