You can thank Wilma.
This time last week, I was supposed to be in Florida, for no other reason than because I could. But then there was this stupid thing called a hurricane, with torrential winds and downpour and general misery. Thus, there was no my going to Florida, as people were actually trying to leave the state. It'd have been rather stupid of me to try to get in.
As an aside: would you rather know that you were going to experience mass destruction (hurricane), or would you rather be surprised with it (earthquake)? I daresay I choose the latter. But then, that's why I'm out on the (figuratively) right coast, the West coast.
Anyway, I was given seven days to use my ticket. So amenable, those airlines are.
And thus, I'm writing to you from the wrong coast, that being the East. For I'm in Boston, because nothing says tropical vacation like Boston!
I know why I left now. It is fucking freezing out here. My body doesn't like the cold. My brain can't really compute what 39 degrees fahrenheit feels like. This time last year I was frolicking on the Cape and actually wearing a skirt. But not this year. No. I had to actually go through my unpacked suitcases full of winter clothes in order to find proper clothing to wear. Flipflops and summer skirts were just not going to cut it. I even thought about bringing out my fur, but I didn't want to lug that sucker on the airplane. It's huge.
So here I am, needing to walk the dog (not a euphemism, you silly people) but not really wanting to go outside because, erm, it's COLD, y'all.
Anyway, all I want to do is eat lots of lobster and see fall leaves. Because that's the one thing I miss about New England. Lobster. Autumn. Preferably, eating lobster under fall leaves. That would be ideal. With a big fat martini.
Because nothing would be closer to heaven. Nothing, that is, except for sunning on the beach with a trashy novel in one hand and a mojito in the other. And lobster. There is always lobster in my heaven.