Maybe I'll wear a flip-flop on one foot and a galosh on the other?

Dear Weather.com,

What are you trying to tell me with this image? How is this at all helpful in preparing me for what is going on outside? Am I going to step out into a bright sunny day and then be attacked by a bolt of lightning while only half of me gets rained on? What kind of motherfreaking outfit am I supposed to wear? Is this because you have an inferiority complex since you have been so wrong lately about the weather, and this makes sure all of your bases are covered?

You are about as helpful as NYC traffic signals.

If William Golding Set Up Wall Street in Africa

I saw this in a store window while walking down Park Avenue the other day. Seriously? Boys — does this make you want to purchase this suit? Or rather, girls — do you look at this and immediately think of how your boyfriend would look in it? If the answer is yes, that's a little animalistic of you.

It's like Lord of the Flies meets Armani. Or something out of the new Nora Roberts book Divine Evil... but that reference may be lost on 99.9% of you.

Un Autre Moi

I received this email a few days ago. It was actually written fully in French, which was the first hint that it might have been sent to the incorrect address. I had the BF translate it (he's fluent) and this is what the letter said:

"Hi, as I have no news from you I decided to write. I learned from Jean Charles that Lionel “packed his boxes”!!! You have thus decided to separate…. I am sad for you two. I dare not tell the children, they would not understand, especially Laureline.

You will pass through very painful moments and I am so sad to be far from you. The distance makes it hard to communicate, yet I think about you often without doing anything which makes it true that I have been selfish.

I finally resumed work on March 9, but I am still not calm. I live with the sword of Damocles over my head. The end will probably be when I have my MRI before the summer and they will say that all is gone, that I have nothing more.

I had not heard any news of Lionel since my birthday and it feels so distant, it’s no longer the same!!! I do not know if your separation will be final, but if one thing is sure it’s that I cannot imagine one of you without the other!

I hope to have some news from you soon. I hug you very strong. Big kiss to Jessica and Chris."

Seriously? Why don't people write like this anymore? Or, I guess this is current, but write like this in English? I feel like I've stepped into a Jane Austen novel. Or maybe Sartre, although if that was the case the whole MRI thing would probably have been more extended.

This email reminds me of when I went to Rome and traveled by myself. I asked for directions from a nice man in his forties, Francesco, who proceeded to show me around to different places in the city on his lunch break. I didn't realize how creepy it was at the time, I can be quite naive, and I gave him my email address so he could send me more places to see. For months after, or actually until my Penn email account was erased, he sent me love sonnets he wrote himself. Some in Italian, some in Spanish, some in broken English. Usually on major Italian holidays that I'd never heard of, and especially, always, on Easter. I never replied to any of them, but I suppose it was romantic in its own, thank-goodness-you-are-on-another-continent kind of way.

 A very sick, inner dramatic side of me almost wishes this French email was meant for me. Since my inbox is mainly full of "hey, u drinking tonight?" or "LOL I have the funniest story for you", or "omg his new gf is so ugly, facebook her and confirm." Not nearly as literary. But then I would have a dying friend who has "the sword of Damocles" over his head, a lover whose left me, and two children. Merde!

Excuse me while I wipe my nose

Sooooo my new doctor thinks I'm an aneroxic cokehead.

Yeah. I know, right?

I went to my doctor's office earlier this week for my yearly check up, and was confronted with a new female doctor who was all bright and shiny with a nice peppy ponytail. I could tell from the moment I met her we weren't going to get along. 

She sat down, opened my chart and yelped. "OMG ... your body index...." she stuttered... "You can't model in France!"

HUH?! I looked at her blankly, stunned. She collected her thoughts and said "What I mean is, your body mass index is way too low! You are too skinny to model in France. They wouldn't allow it." Damn, my life goal of moving to Paris and becoming a supermodel is shot. Seriously? I mean, that can't even be true. This woman should go to South America. Her head would explode.

Then, she said, "What are you goaling at... 100?" I was still confused, but that seemed to make more sense than the model comment. I mean the word "goal" I associate with soccer, which has nothing to do with my weight unless she was telling me I couldn't play soccer in France. "I don't understand what you mean." She explained that she was asking me if I was aiming to be 100 pounds. I told her that my friend Jamie and I threw a party for me when I broke 100 in high school and that I was very proud of three digits and wasn't looking to go backward, thank you very much.

She then went into her whole schtick about eating disorders, and how important eating is — no, really? — and I let her talk for a little to make herself feel better than interrupted her. "Ma'am, I have a fast metabolism. I'm also hypoglycemic. I actually eat lots of meals several times a day because if I don't my blood sugar drops and I get really bitchy." She smiled at me and said "Honey, I doubt you are hypoglycemic, but if telling yourself that makes you eat more then I'm all for pretending." Wow. And hellllllooooo Dr. McBitch.

We moved on to the STD portion of our conversation. "Maybe we should test you for Hepatitis C just once, to make sure you don't have it." I thought that was kind of random but I was like whatever you want, go ahead. She said, "Well if you snort drugs, you are at risk for Hep C." I nodded my head and smiled politely, biting my tongue. "You know, you can get it from sharing straws."

Whaaaaaaaat!? Let me explain something. I'm a bit of a germaphobe. Yes, yes I am a huge disaster and am super messy but I really hate germs. I don't like to share forks, I hate when people ask if they can have a bite of my burger, and I am thoroughly disgusted by subway poles. "OMG really!?" I shrieked. She lit up, although I didn't understand why. "Yeah, like coke straws." I replied, "Oh well I don't drink soda but sometimes I share my water bottles." She looked at me, dumbfounded. "You can't really be that naive?" Ahh, but I can. When she realized I wasn't in fact, "messing with her" as she put it, she explained that she was talking about cocaine. "I meant straws to snort cocaine. Like rolled up dollar bills. I feel like a badass doctor explaining about drugs. Wow, you really are that innocent."

Okay, you all might think I'm really slow. And it's not like I've never seen drugs before or am Mary freakin' Poppins but I just don't pick up on drug jokes. Like Colin Farrell's sniffles joke at the Golden Globes last Sunday — totally went over my head until I read about it at work. My friend's joke when I came out of the bathroom for too long (I had been talking on the phone and hiding from the loud music), "What were you doing in the bathroom?" "I wasn't pooping I swear!" I proclaimed as he laughed and explained thats not what he was implying. But hey, I'm not the most innocent out of all my friends. At a bachelorette party in Vegas a guy offered one of my girlfriends a cigarette, said "Want a bum?" and when she nodded he stuck the cig up her nose and she gasped in surprise, simultaneously inhaling the white powder that was in the hollowed out tube. Apparently he had said "Want a bump?" and she had misunderstood, accidentally doing coke for the first time.

Anyway... the good ole doc tried to make up for all of her accusations when she found out I wrote gossip for a living and told me how she loves Perez and then said the necklace I was wearing was "soo Carrie Bradshaw". But the damage was done. And once she said I was so skinny she could easily feel my ovaries, I decided I'd had enough. I'm taking my starving sniffles elsewhere from now on.