A completely impractical and financially insensitive step-by-step guide to staying warm this holiday season!

1. Head to California.
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Dear Rand,

You know what today is, right?

Yeah. Holy shit.

Sorry. I know cussing is only for special occasions like the Superbowl and visiting your family. But still. HOLY SHIT, RAND.

I think we might need to count them, to make sure it’s actually true.

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Sometimes, I am convinced I am beastly.

I’m not saying this to solicit compliments – when I want compliments, I simply look at my husband and say, “Babe, don’t I look wonderful?” and then reply to my own question in a bizarre sing-song voice that is not-at-all reminiscent of Rand’s, “OH MY GOD, YES. No part of you looks less than awesome.”

I highly recommend this approach. It is far better than nervously waiting for someone to say you look great.

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Don’t get your camera wet.

These seems to be a fairly obvious rule, right? I can do that, can’t I? And yet, aren’t the simplest rules the hardest ones to follow? There were only three rules to taking care of a Mogwai, and none of them were that complicated, but look how that turned out.

So even when it started raining at Machu Picchu, and folks pulled out all kinds of covers and gear to keep their cameras dry, I kept snapping away. I’m pleased to say that no evil little cameras were spawned from my larger one.

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When I met Rand, he was living with one of his guy friends.

Their apartment was a quintessential bachelor pad: it had two bedrooms, smelled of Old Spice deodorant, and was furnished with enormous black leather couches and geometric prints. There was an abundance of electronics, and not a single framed photograph of a loved one.

When Rand later moved in with me, the transition must have been somewhat traumatic. The bathroom was filled with all sorts of foreign items: straightening and curling irons and a crimper that I kept around in case of emergencies (having since thrown it away, I now live in fear that someone will have an 80s party, and I won’t be able to attain big hair). There were multiple laundry hampers, with specific instructions as to which items could be placed inside of them. There were weird things like low-fat yogurt and almond butter in the fridge. In the early months of our co-habitation, we fought over stupid things, like where the dish sponge should go, and important things, like where our alarm clock should go.

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The place: a restaurant on the lower west side in Manhattan.

The time: a few weeks ago, on a very warm summer night.

The characters: Tom Critchlow (admitted smart-ass); me (totally not a smart-ass AT ALL).

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Tom: You know what your blog needs?

Me: What’s that?

Tom: More photos of you and Rand kissing. There’s definitely not enough of those.

Me: Piss off, Tom.

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Three years ago today, I made you laugh until you cried.

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