Fallaphobia

As the blustery winds start to snake their way through the crispy red and yellowing trees, a chilly fear creeps into my sun-worshiping skin. It's here. Again. Just like every year. I should have expected it. And yet I'm still terrified.

Who doesn't love a good hay ride, or an afternoon spent apple picking? A bonfire complete with your significant other's sweatshirt wrapped around you? Halloween, pumpkin pie, raking leaves... on and on with the fall magic! It's all crap Silly diversions created to distract us and make us feel warm and fuzzy just long enough to forget that this is only the beginning of the cold - soon absolutely everything will die and we'll be forced to wear long underwear and leg warmers and wrap our faces in several scarves just so that we can walk three blocks to the train without suffering from frostbite. 

In researching the fear of fall, I discovered that there is no actual term for it. There is Ancraophobia, which is the fear of wind. And also Frigophobia, the fear of cold, but no fear of fall. I suppose I am the very first person to fear it. (Or admit that I fear it.) Every year I re-examine why exactly I live on the East Coast. What's really stopping me from moving to a warmer climate? I really am a warm-weather gal at heart, despite living in the midwest for most of my life. So why do I live somewhere where my favorite season barely lasts a quarter of the year? I spend more time and energy complaining that it's NOT summer than enjoying the current season. But just like everything, the grass is always greener (well, in this case it's dead and brown.) And perhaps suffering through the rain, sleet, and snow makes me appreciate the summer all the more.

So I'm going to try to be a good sport this year as we transition into fall and winter. I'll laugh it up on a stinkin hay ride. I'll play in some crunchy dead leaves. I'll eat a carmel apple and pretend I'm not annoyed that bits get stuck in my teeth. And most of all, I'll enjoy those 40 degree, rainy, slopping-through-wet-leaves-days, knowing full well that there are even shittier ones ahead.

Little Penny in a Pile of Pretzels

As I reminisced last night with a lovely Tennessee native about my recent business trip to Nashville, I realized that I never blogged about my trip as promised.  I learned a lot and found fresh inspiration and ideas for my job, ate some good (and some really bad) food, and line danced my heart out!  The Nashville folks were as sweet as Frito Pie (you heard me) and our hotel was an indoor paradise - complete with waterfalls, plant-life, a river with fish the size of raccoons, and shops, restaurants and bars galore!  One never had to leave this virtual bio-dome, and admittedly I didn't stray very far until the very last night when we took our artistic arses out for a rip-roarin good time in downtown Nashville.

Now the details of the evening are another story for another time, however I will tell you that we returned back to our hotel wonderland in the wee hours and raided the one on site convenience store that was still open for business.  I bought a gigantic chocolate and sprinkle covered rice krispie treat on a stick and a bag of pretzels.  Events between the trip to the convenience store and the morning remain a blur, but I will tell you this - I woke up in a pile of pretzels the next day.  

I am no stranger to eating in bed - in fact it is secretly one of my biggest pleasures in life.  Add an episode of America's Next Top Model to the equation you have what I consider to be the guiltiest of guilty pleasures. There's just something about combining the comfort of my bed and the comfort of a carton of ice cream that is the ultimate joy for me.  I am publicly admitting to the wide wide world here and now that I often eat full meals in bed - perhaps this stems from years of living in a studio where the bed was the centerpiece of the whole apartment, or perhaps I just really like my bed.  Either way I do it and now you all know.

Part of me worries that admitting this routine of mine will repel potential suitors.  I wonder if a man will be repulsed by the permanent cafe mocha stain on the underside of my comforter, or the occasional popcorn kernel found lurking under my pillow.  But then I think, surely my soul-mate also eats and drinks in bed - specifically popcorn and cafe mochas (but ideally not in the same sitting.)

If you haven't yet experienced the glory of food-in-bed, it comes recommended highly by P+P.  Or if you have (I know you closeted bed munchers are out there) now is the time to speak freely about your experiences!  Yes, it can be occasionally messy, and yes, it may be a sign that you are utterly and totally lazy, but, as I told my Canadian conference buddy, everything tastes better in bed!  

Hell-NO kitty

Raise your hand if you like dogs.  (Pause for hand raising.)  Raise your hand if you like cats.   (Again, a pause.)  Raise your hand if you dislike dogs.  (I can see those of you not participating in the hand raising.)  Now raise your hand if you dislike cats - AH!  How dare you?!?  I saw that...

Ever since I was little, it was no secret that I was a cat lover.  Funny, because our first family pets were two Shetland Sheepdogs, and as a child I was exposed to very few cats other than the ones that invaded my room in stuffed toy form or appeared on my childhood wardrobe (we're talking purple cat dresses and sparkly pink cheetah sweatshirts folks.)  Cat characters dominated my early self-illustrated books with titles such as Sally and Supercat, Catland, and Key the Special Kitten.  And at the vulnerable age of 13 I finally had a real live cat of my own, the beautiful tuxedo cat, the one and only, Cleocatra.

Now I don't expect you readers out there to foster a love of cats as borderline obsessive as mine, however I am here to say to those of you cat-dislikers out there:  give cats a chance!  Not all cats are created equal, and while I do understand that there exist a handful of aloof, mean, couch-potato cats out there, there are also sweet kitties populating the earth, just waiting for you to scoop them up and cuddle them.  Now, there are valid reasons to not like an animal - perhaps you were attacked by one as a child and you still have traumatic memories.  Stop being a pussy and get over it.  Perhaps you are allergic.  I'm allergic to almost everything outside, but does that stop me from enjoying the glories of nature?  No it doesn't.  Suck it up and pet a cat.  You might like it.  And if you are still unconvinced, I implore you to come and meet our cats, particularly Footsie, pictured below:

Footsie is quite possibly the most awesome cat you'll ever meet.  He waits at the door for you to come home.  He gives kisses.  He eats your cereal.  He drinks beer.  He has 13 toes total on his two front paws.  He cuddles.  And he's a really good listener.  To the cat-opposed people out there, this is my last effort to convince you - if you met Footsie I guarantee you'd change your mind.

I'm aware that this may be my most controversial blog yet.  Please feel free to comment and join in my fight against the anti-kitty everywhere.  Meow! 

The Recorder Man (Recycled)

Friends and Neighbors, you may call this cheating.  Below you'll find my first blog ever.  On October 1, 2007 on MySpace.com, a Blogger was born...  

"So, tonight I was waiting for the T at Harvard Square around 10 pm, and there was a grown man playing a recorder on the platform... badly. Now, didn't we all learn to play this awful "instrument" when we were 9 years old? And didn't we annoy enough people then? Maybe I was only annoyed because I was tired. Maybe it was because I was cold. Maybe it was because I have 2 degrees in Music, and maybe that makes me a snob. Maybe it was because people should not be allowed to impose their bad music on the rest of the world. I can still hear the terrible off-key shrill sound ringing in my ears. 

This is offense No. 1 of many in the case of Penny vs. Jerkfaces everywhere. Stay tuned."

Not bad for a first blog, eh?  You know, I was a lot angrier back then it seems.  Or a lot more full of myself.