14

No, I am not referring to my mental age, though I appreciate you going there.

No, I am not referring to my clothing size because we are not discussing weight, size, poundage, heft, bulk, disgrace, working out, or fat or calories until (probably) after the holidays because I just do NOT have the bandwidth. I lost basically no weight in 2006 and don't think that's going to change between now -- DECEMBER, by the way -- and New Year's. Because with turkey and eggnog and the fact that I'm spending Christmas with my family and my cousin Nate who once dubbed himself Boozy Clause, it's just not realistic.

I guess my "No Joy in '06" plan -- the plan wherein I was going to rein in my spending and my eating and hunker down and grow up -- worked VERY WELL except for the weight part. Which was kind of the whole fucking point. So oops and we'll have to come up with something catchy for '07.

Anyway.

14 is the number of degrees it is threatening to be at some point next Tuesday when I am in Chicago.

[Attn: BlogHer babes -- going to Chicago to scout venues for us to rock the uber BlogHer Con '07. Woo to the oot!]

That's like, barely more degrees than I can count on my fingers and you know what also isn't cute? When one of the venue ladies you're going to meet with adds a P.S. in her email that says, "Bring your snow boots!"

Snow boots?

I did grow up in a land where it snowed and so I mean, I am not oblivious to this sort of thing, but I live in California now. Where, sure, it gets damn cold but that doesn't mean we stop wearing our flip-flops.

I'm not really sure what the point of this entry is, other than to share that I am going to Chicago next week on a business trip and feel very grown up about it. Especially because I was adult enough to get my winter coat over to the dry cleaners this morning after I realized that it was:
A. the only nice, business-ish coat I own; and
B. covered in splattered ketchup

True, I'm not sure how showing up with a ketchup-splattered coat could be any less professional than having my cat hock up a hairball while on the phone with the vendor I'll be visiting, but you know. Appearances and all that.

In case you're wondering about the ketchup, I will tell you. A few nights ago, I was out grabbing a quick bite with Ish. And the "quick bite" involved being at a hamburger joint that had one of those push-down-on-the-plastic-spout tubs of ketchup I have managed to use without incident my whole life. Ish sidled right up to it and pushed down and got a simple, easy, steady stream of ketchup.

But.

Then I used it. And while I didn't push too hard or fast or uncarefully, my breezy elegance must have sent a secret message to the tub that I had been condiment-free for like, a whole week and so it decided to do its civic duty and clog, suddenly. And then unclog, suddenly.

*SPLAT*

Ketchup droplets all over my shirt. All over the insides of my pink coat. (Yes, I said INSIDES. Outside alone wouldn't be enough.)

I just looked up at Ish, who said reflexively, "Awww, sweetie." And then laughed at me.

This is how it goes all the time. We've had practice. I spill / trip / fall / drip. I look at Ish. He says "Awww, sweetie" and then tries not to laugh too hard while mopping me up.

It reminds me, actually, of my brilliant friend Missy, who said to me once, "My husband just sort of follows me around with paper towels."

But did I mention? 14 degrees? Oh, and SNOWING? At least my coat will be clean.

I wonder which pair of flip-flops will go best.