Yesterday, it snowed in Seattle. This is a rarity in the Pacific Northwest. We’re no strangers to precipitation, but not of the frozen variety. A sprinkling of snow tends to shut the entire town down.

So you can just imagine what happened yesterday, when FIVE INCHES of snow fell. Buses stopped running. Streets were closed. People frantically dragged their poor husbands to the grocery stores at ridiculously early hours in order to get food so that they would not starve during the imminent ice age (okay, fine. That last one might have been me. I’m not sitting through snowpocalypse without a run to Trader Joe’s first).

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Is it possible to make something truly wonderful (and fattening) even more wonderful (and also more fattening)? Of course. This is America, damn it. Where we don’t take “no” or “that’s irresponsible from a dietary standpoint” for an answer. Where we take our dessert with an extra side of dessert.

Behold:

Somewhere, someone is starving to death. </seriousness>

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These are the cones that Rand and I spotted at an ice cream shop in Pennsylvania that was graciously named “Pigadilly’s“.  If the extra $1.50 price tag looks a little steep, remember: innovation and genius do not come cheap. You aren’t just paying for a cone – you are investing in what makes American great.

And also investing in what makes America fat. But let’s focus on the great part.

How have I let so much time pass without telling you about these?

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It is late Sunday night, and I’m staring at my computer screen, trying to figure where the time went.

“How is the weekend already over?” I wonder (even after years of having no real obligations on Monday morning, I am still sad when it approaches).

And just earlier today, I asked a friend how, exactly, it was December already. And how can 2012 possibly be weeks away? How – sweet lord in heaven – how am I thirty-one years old and still have to stop myself from answering “Sixteen!” when people ask me my age? (And why, while we’re on the topic, do people keep asking me how old I am? Is it that much of a mystery?)

I close my eyes tightly, trying to take a mental catalog of the last few hours, days, weeks, months, and years. Did they all pass by so quickly? Did I miss anything? Did I forget to tell you anything?

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The inner workings of my soul and a dark and hostile place. My husband has been with me for nearly 10 years, and there are still times when I will say something so full of vitriol and spite that he will look at me, his eyes wide, and whisper, “Jesus Christ, Geraldine.”

My response to this is usually to giggle, because it is always a comfort to know you can still surprise your husband, even if that surprise stems from his shock at how evil you are.

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I have to share something with you has absolutely nothing to do with travel. Not really, anyway. It’s a little narcissistic. I hope you won’t mind.

Ready? Here goes: It’s my birthday.

I know. I’m positively tickled. I love birthdays. Entire days dedicated to eating cake and wearing party dresses. It’s not unlike what I imagine heaven to be.

I suspect I might be in the minority here. I’ve met a lot of folks who absolutely abhor birthdays, and the inevitable aging that goes along with them, but that’s something I’ve never really minded. Every year I spend on this planet, things just seem to get better. After three decades, I’m really getting the swing of things. I now listen to NPR voluntarily, and not just because I’m trying to impress a boy. I’ve become quite adept at walking in heels. As the years go by, stinky cheeses taste better and better. And the Muppets now hold another level of humor that I never understood as a child (if you haven’t experienced this phenomenon for yourself, I highly recommend you rewatch The Muppets Take Manhattan. The puns! The double entendres! A cameo by a delightfully young and handsome Elliott Gould!) Plus, with adulthood, I’ve found I’ve almost grown into my nose. Not quite, but almost.

"You like my nose, right sweetie? RIIIIIGHT?"

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There was a knock on the bathroom door in the middle of the night.

“Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” I said. Which was sort of true. I was presently in the process of squatting in my friend’s old clawfoot bathtub, running cold water over my head and body in an attempt to alleviate the crippling migraine that had come over me. Migraines aren’t new to me – they strike more or less monthly (it takes little sleuthing to guess when) and render me a miserable wreck. This time, one had hit while I was visiting my friend Christine, who was now knocking at the door.

“I didn’t throw up,” I shouted over the rush of water. As though it was an achievement.

“It would okay if you did,” Christine said gently, as only women who are mothers can.

I’ve no doubts she was sincere when she said those words. Christine and I met in the seventh grade. There are elements to our friendship that are grandfathered in. Among them, she can call me Deenie (and before you ask, no. Do not even think of trying it, even as a joke), and I may vomit in the Victorian clawfoot tub of her Wichita home.

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I’d like to think that I’m pretty up-to-speed on important, world-changing events. I read reddit daily. I’m following the situation in Libya. I heard about the passing of Jack Layton, leader of Canada’s Official Opposition party (though in all honesty, up until this week I had no idea who he was). I’m even somewhat aware that one of the Kardashians got hitched recently, proving that even vapid people are deserving of love.

So naturally, you can imagine I might have been slightly beside myself when I saw this a few months back:

WHAAAAA ...?

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