When you reach the end of this post, you’re going to want to butcher me–at least if you reside in the northeast and experienced today’s heat wave, which I’ve been eagerly anticipating since I moved to NYC in October. Really. It was 93 degrees all day and tomorrow is only going to be hotter, which means I’m going to be in high spirits. The warmer, the more pleasant I am, no matter how uncomfortable and suffocating the humidity may be.
Besides, during heat waves I have an excuse to unleash my inner 12-year-old and enjoy milkshakes:
Ample thanks are in order for my boss Amy, who surprised me with a delicious Dean and Deluca strawberry cupcake just before noon:
Finally, I owe my roommate Jen big time for bringing these home from work for me:
Life is peachy right now, mainly because of the weather. One of these days, the roomie and I are going to explore the beaches of the NYC area. They don’t hold a candle to those of California (particularly those in San Diego), but they’ll do. The first day of summer got off to an amazing start. The next few months are going to turn my world upside down (in a good way). It won’t be quite as awesome as summer 2011, the summer of Laura and Nikki, but it’ll do. We’re actually hoping to go to Vegas in two months. I’ll know by the end of the week whether it’s a go, and I’m hoping it will be.
It’s just getting so hard to live away from the west. This evening, my mom called just to
torture me say she was at the spa in San Jose. The last time I went to a spa, the male masseuse essentially paralyzed me. My neck still hurts from whatever the flip he did to it. I’ve been meaning to see a physical therapist about my neck pain (which is a seven on a scale of one to ten), but am too terrified of what I’ll hear to schedule an appointment and fix the problem. It’s so much easier to walk around with a stiff neck and tense muscles. Oh, the plight of the frail, willowy, pasty ginger who babies herself like everyone in her weakling family.
On a happier note, my roommate’s Brazilian boyfriend called me “the model” today–probably because I’m Lady Bigfoot compared to his five foot three flame. I’d still like to be taller than five eight. Blake Lively, my spirit mammal, is five ten and supposedly has “impossibly long legs.” If I’m going to be a tall girl, I may as well be the tallest around and get on her level. Though everyone in my family is super tall, the doctor predicted I’d stop growing at five two. My dad made me drink gallons of milk as a kid and I’m positive that consumption habit contributed to my “north of average height.” And I love it. Really though, I’d like to sprout just a little bit more, so please enlighten me, Blake Lively. I must know your secret.