I never really got into podcasts (it was only recently that I accepted electricity as a trend that’s here to stay, and I’m still clutching my wide-brimmed hat about it.) I vaguely recall listening to This American Life back when I hung around a lot of people who were a little older than me and very into being aware of things so that one could be indignant about the things over craft beers. Most of those people, to the best of my knowledge, are now doing important work to better the things they helped teach me to be indignant about – which reminds me, I should remember to try more. And do better. Anyway, so, podcasts. Someone recently suggested I listen to “My Favorite Murder” because they know I am a person who loves murdering. Actually why they suggested it is a little unclear – the suggestion was based on the fact that I share a space 45+ hours/week with a human who is extremely challenging to share space with and others, including the podcast-suggest-er, are sympathetic. But the part that’s unclear is exactly in which way stories about murders are supposed to be helpful. Is it in like a, “life could be worse” kind of way? Or in a “I think you are a person who probably identifies with murderers” kind of way? Either way, it’s GREAT. The setup is casual, so it just feels like you’re hanging out with friends (especially if your friends don’t respond to you or acknowledge your presence in any way, and if you can’t SEE your friends you just hear their voices and also if your friends like to talk about dead people a lot.) I’ve been playing it while I get ready in the morning, and I can’t tell you what a treat it is to hear about women running into oncoming traffic while I smile into the mirror and dot blush onto the apples of my rosy, rosy cheeks. Such a pleasant way to greet the day.

I’m also listening to one called Sword & Scale, which is way more fascinating/upsetting. I tried to play one today at work but it had to do with kids and the dark web and it just got way too gruesome. Like even thinking about it now is making me want to throw up the sugar-free Jell-O pudding cup I just ate without a spoon.

The books that I’m reading are more cheerful – for example, I got a Kindle one for .99 (you know I can’t not) and in it the little boy escapes! from the secret, walled-off basement that his family is living in because his older brother raped and murdered a girl from their town who fell off a cliff. And the baby that the older sister has with the older brother is healthy! Another recent one (worth about 1/10th of the .99 it cost) about a girl who kills her roommate, assumes her identity, and then stalks the child she gave away for adoption. And not ALL of the post-apocalyptic ones have also been dystopian, exactly, so. I just bought/started reading Station 11 upon the recommendation of one of the girls on the murder podcast, so I’ve got pretty high hopes for a happy ending.

Also have not made the slightest of dents in the wall of books I already own and have yet to read. And if I divide how much I’ve PAID for the gym this year by how many times I’ve GONE, well, you know, math is hard.

That was an update on what I've been listening to/reading. Brought to you by 5PM EST.

I’m having a nice morning, besides being in an argument with Diego. He made me mad the other day and I annoyed him about it this morning and he (quite rudely) told me that I was being annoying and he went back to bed and I finished my oatmeal and left for work. The other thing that’s happening with us is that he gave me a pretty diamond ring so that people know we’re going to get married. I feel like the argument story sort of tempers the engagement story, which makes it a more comfortable thing for me to share. Listen – I like pretty dresses and sparkly rings and drinking, okay? So have your weddings. Really. I like them. I like you. But I want to die, a little you know?, when I think about having my own. We’ll be at city hall sometime over the next year, with a photographer (because I’m going to look amazing) and a bottle of champagne and then we’ll probably eat a fancy dinner and do something fun with two of our closest (only) friends.

Listen to this too, if you’re Diego (if you’re not you can listen, too, I mean I’m speaking pretty loudly how could you not):
I want to argue with you until one of us is dead.
/vows

While we’re on the topic of significant others, Arwen won’t eat the all-natural, all-organic, made-by-fairies-in-the-forest-especially-for-geriatric-cats-with-bad-attitudes food that I sacrificed six pedicures and twelve bottles of wine to pay for (two bottles of wine per pedicure, for those of you struggling with the math), she just looks at it and then at me like I’m her grandmother and she’s Cathy Dollanganger. She was marginally happier with me when I caved and started giving her ashes and the bones of other cats (that’s what Friskies is made out of, yeah?) because it’s what I know she’ll eat, but the guilt/worry is MADDENING. Also, when I googled “what is the best cat food” I was told by Google that I shouldn’t be giving her dry food at all. WHAT. I thought that cleaned their little cat teeth? Another wrong thing I am doing, apparently, is mixing her thyroid medication into Fancy Feast. Apparently that’s terrible, too. Everything is terrible. Anyway, other cat humans, please tell me what to do.

Winter here has been a season of getting away with something. For months we've been running our laundry down the street in long-sleeve tees and drinking our cocktails on the sidewalk. I don't know about everyone else - maybe it's the Irish Catholic asleep at the base of my spine, but guilt is a motivator much more universal than that so probably I know more about everyone else than I think I do - but it's been difficult to enjoy skipping down the street in Keds and my denim jacket (I'm trying more for Babysitter's Club than I am for Taylor Swift, but the look I'm actually achieving is probably my mom circa 1992. Which is fine, my mom was and remains a stone fox) without also looking over my shoulder in a worried sort of way.

Today is a snow day. I've fired up the latest round of B&BWs candles that I purchased and then forgot about until they showed up at my office in a box that weighs approximately as much as I do, and I've settled into my couch with a cup of coffee and the work I brought home with me. Arwen and Enya are keeping me company - Enya softly in the background and Arwen either in my way or knocking things over out of sight. In between, she's making use of the Amazon Fresh bags that have accumulated in my living room because I keep forgetting to set them out for pickup. Arwen, not Enya.

This storm is a relief. It's something we can all agree on, something we all know what to do with. Last night I went to the grocery store on my way home, not because I needed anything (thank you, Amazon Fresh) but because, like - that's what you do, before a storm. I bought ketchup and frozen tater tots and talked to my favorite cashier for longer than the person in line behind me appreciated. I told her to get home safe and stay warm and then I came home, because that's what you do in a storm. It's a comfort, in otherwise uncertain times, for people to know what to do.

The snow coming down feels correct - ah, here we go. Here is New York in winter. That's more like it.

Of course, now that I don't need to feel guilty about leaving my coat behind when I go out to get a coffee, what I feel guilty about is writing dumb-ass blogs about what a relief this blizzard is when there are people who don't have shelter or the resources to stay safe and warm at home with tater tots and ketchup and a boyfriend who will do most of the shoveling. Please Lindsay, tell us more about how you feel weird. It is endlessly fascinating and important.

There's a lot about living in this city that is wildly unreasonable. A lot. The absurdity is magnified when someone who doesn't live here comes to visit - mostly (not always, not every time - but mostly) people very much can't wait to get away from the complete ridiculousness that I and eight million others have settled into. Trying to make the people I love love this place is like trying to make them love me. It is an alien language that isn't taught, but uncovered. Winter is - what is winter, here? Winter is what it means to carve a life into this place. That's not specific to NYC, no. Winter is a multi-purpose metaphor. I guess what I'm saying is, I am not myself outside of this place and this place is not this place without winter. So I'm glad that it's decided to join us, today.

It was snowing so I took the train. There was an empty seat next to a young man in a big puffy coat, so I sat down in it. I did this even though he was drinking coffee out of a jam jar - a behavior I am equal parts admirable of and irritated by. I find that my morning commute is not ideal for feelings so divergent in nature, and yet. I sat. As we moved along toward the city and the jobs/appointments/whatever stupid things that required us to be out in the snow instead of inside our apartments drinking coffee and wearing soft pants, the young man replaced the lid on the jar and put it into his backpack after every sip. Lid off, sip. Lid on. Into the backpack. Beat. Beat. Out of the backpack. Lid off, sip. Lid on. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. Until finally he reached into his backpack and pulled out a small book instead of the jam jar. “Here we go,” I thought. “Something interesting is about to happen.” Isn’t there always, with people who drink hot things out of jam jars on trains?

There was a carpenter’s pencil inside the small book, which was actually a journal. I learned both of these things because I watched him open the book-that-was-a-journal, because I was looking for the interesting thing and in looking I could not help but watch.

The use of carpenter’s pencils by people who are not carpenters or in some related field is another thing I feel conflicted about. I imagine that the notes my dear doctor friend takes of our time together read much like a shopping list. Jam jars. Carpenter’s pencils. Diet coke.

“elpeets,” he wrote. That’s all, enough lines down that he was writing in the center of the page. “elpeets.”

I’m thinking about moving this show on over to Wordpress. I figured out the difference between the two (immediately after learning that there ARE two) and then almost spent real money on a domain name, until I realized that part of what I was paying for was for the server (right? That’s a name of a thing, right?) to NOT share my name and address? I have to pay for that!? I don’t even enable comments, never mind enabling you people to show up at my house WHICH YOU OBVIOUSLY WOULD. But whatever, I’ll probably maybe do that because there’s no Blogger app for iOS (that’s another name right? Am I right!?) and I just don’t have the time or the inclination these days to sit at a computer and write. (Not counting the last ten minutes of work, when I don’t have anything I feel like starting on before I blow this pop stand, but I want to look busy so I don’t have to talk to my office buddy, which is now.) I’m on my phone much more than I’m near a computer for fun reasons and not work reasons, and I think I’d like to blog more. I don’t know why I like it, I just do. So. We’ll see.