I want to be the person who sits there and develops Victoria’s Secret underwear fashions. Why can’t that be my job? I want my life to consist of deciding whether we’re going to go with flowers or plaid this year, and whether it will be a pastel collection or what shade of orange goes with lime green. Hey, let’s stick some dogs on there too. Every girl wants a dog on her underwear, right? (Well, I did at least. They’re really cute!) I want to source died feathers from China! I want to determine who’s best at sticking rhinestones onto thongs! YES!

Well, either that or some editor/writer bullshit.

I’ve officially met every Russian Jew in the greater Minneapolis-St. Paul area. But the family has decided they “like” me, as I was informed by the BF’s mommy. Before I came here he told me that his mom thought I “seemed unhappy” and his dad “liked that I did the dishes.” So my strategy to ingratiate myself with them was, naturally, to act happy and do lots of dishes. And man, have I done a lot of dishes. The other day Baba A. (the BF’s mommy) told me to stop doing dishes because it was making her feel guilty!—Score! I think I’ve succeeded at acting happier as well, despite having to have hour-long conversations with people whose language I don’t speak and the godawful weather. Not to be like, a wuss, but constantly being cold makes me want to curl up into a little ball until April. Why does it have to be so gosh darn cold? WHY?

…Man. Hanging around little kids has thoroughly cleansed my language of all the fun words. I feel like I’m on one of those “Kids Say the Darndest Things!” shows when I’m with the BF’s niece and nephew (three and five). The other day we’re out to brunch with twenty or so of the BF’s relatives and his little nephew happens to find a general lull in the conversation to say to my boyfriend, “But Uncle V**, WHY are you eating PORK if you’re JEWISH?” …oh yeah. Good stuff.