But Call Me Betsy

First real snowfall of the winter last night--so pretty when it falls sideways in front of the streetlamps. Inches on my car this morning, but didn't take long to dig through. Almost fell on my ass in the work parking lot because they hadn't yet put down salt. I was thumbing through Martha Stewart's Living yesterday in the doctor's waiting room. Even the ads in that magazine make me feel like a failure, not to mention the suggestions for holiday cheer. Hey, did you know you could melt your own wax candles and even shape them into reindeers with tiny silver beads strewn on them and little reins made out of leather? You can also bake a fourteen layer cake filled with chocolate mousse, fresh cranberries, and mint and topped with holly constructed out of tiny slivers of petrified grass. Or make your own Christmas cards--you only need cardstock, a laser printer, a family, a dog, calligraphy materials, and a studio in which to take the photos. Oh, yeah, and a digital camera.

So, my friend Tara threw a birthday bash for her boyfriend Jimmy on Saturday that involved inviting about 12 of his guy friends from all over the country to surprise him by ambushing him as the two of them walked up 5th Street. His glasses flew off and he was toppled to the road, not unlike a perpetrator in Cops . We then walked him to Ray's Happy Birthday Bar below Washington where two other of his guy friends were waiting to surprise him further. Here's Ray's: They have a jukebox next to one of their sticky bar tables and a statue of James Brown above the mirrored bar. The women's room is so small that your knees almost touch the door when you're sitting on the toilet. It's dark inside and smells like cigarette smoke and spilled beer. They had a Christmas tree in one corner decorated with white lights and beer can ornaments. I think we spoiled a typical Saturday at the bar for many of the older men in flannel shirts who frequent the joint. Everyone ordered PBR

There's a cute blond trainer boy at the gym whose name is Luke (Sweat has a wall of trainer names and black and white photographs on the brick staircase as you ascend to find your machine). He's about 23 years old and teaches ab classes and will be your personal muscle building slave for the right price. I imagine that most girls (and some guys) at the gym think he's adorable. I imagine too that he doesn't notice me much because there are so many pretty young girls in cotton leggings, tight sports bras, and swinging ponytails who bounce around the place. So, to counteract his not noticing me, I pretend not to notice him. If he's at the front counter when I swipe in, I smile at the girl and ignore him and his fingerless weight-lifting gloves. If he comes into our class to retrieve a rubber ball to lay on, I don't turn my head. If he strolls in between the ellipses machines, I focus my attention on Dr. Phil. See, I'm trying to teach him a lesson that not EVER