Dear Cold: Go Fuck Yourself

I've had it - I am completely, 100% fed up. I'm throwing my hands up, throwing the proverbial towel in, and declaring: I QUIT.

Fuck. The. Cold.

Walking to work this morning was like stripping naked and plunging into the icy Atlantic. While in Nova Scotia. On the coldest day of the year. My entire face was bright red and chapped by the time I finally threw myself through the building's front doors, and I would've been crying if I wasn't afraid the tears would turn my eyeballs into ice cubes. Between the huge jump in temperature (how again did we go from 60 to 20?) and the fact that the wind was so strong it felt like it was cutting my flesh right off the bone, I realized I just can't take it anymore.

Should I drive, take the Metro, or ice skate to work today?

I hate the cold. I cannot live in the cold. I can do maybe ONE cold weekend a year, and that would be so I could go skiing one day, and wear a cute sweater on the other day. I'm ridiculously sensitive to the cold (okay, so I'm just a whiny baby that can't handle it) despite the fact that I was born and raised in the goddamn Boston area. While everyone else is frolicking about in the snow, enjoying the temperature drop, I'm hiding out inside, gulping down hot chocolates, and bitching and complaining from the moment I feel my first slight chill of the season.

I'm not meant to exist in this temperate zone. I'm supposed to be luxuriating in the warmth on a beach, happily living in a place where the temperature stays between the 60-85 range. I don't mind a coolish day, in which I can wear a light jacket and cute boots, but I don't want to have to break out the parka and some snow boots.

So... LA, here we come!



Sure, LA has some days where those boots and the light jacket come in handy, but for the most part, it's MUCH warmer than anywhere in the goddamn New England/Mid-Atlantic region. And there are other warm areas nearby; San Diego is south, Vegas is east, and Hawaii is west. So, while you all are freezing your asses off, trudging through the tundra in the bleak middle of a DC winter, I'll be sitting on the beach, sipping a martini and chatting about Hollywood politics with A list celebrities.

At least for now, I can console myself with my inner FURNACE. Which brings me too:

Chelsea's Menopausal Madness of the Day

Today (unfortunately) we have not yet seen any hot flashes. Friday, however, saw a spectacular hot flash in the middle of the FMF lobby, and then some lovely hot flashes at 3am, 4am, and 5am. It's like being woken up by your alarm clock, if by "woken up by your alarm clock" actually means "hauled out of bed and thrown into an oven." Do I - or do I - get hotter every day? Oooh, literally and figuratively!