Roles I have played in the last two weeks include:

“artsy bombshell” San Francisco swinger seductress

naughty psych-ward nurse

sexy housewife

hypnosis victim

Valentines Day dinner involves pecans and pre-dinner sheet destruction.  Pink food dye.  Tiny, ball-shaped pasta with charred peppers and smashed olives.  Turnips turned orangy with pimenton.  Cut paper and new underpants and broom-swept ceiling fan and all-Springsteen karaoke.  Photo exchange.  Cave-grown albino asparagus.  Timmy and Maria dirty-dueting into the champagne-bottle microphones.

This winter, I have missed every snowstorm.  I’ve ridden down 101 in February with the windows down, bare legs and no sweater to Moss Beach Distillery where puppies steal twenty-dollar sandwiches off deck tables and my friend X “The Mayor” T deals with the rude comments of our staring, pointing, drunken fellow restaurant-goers by looking them right in the eyes and stating quite eloquently: “you’re just going to have to get used to the fact that people look all kinds of different ways.”

My man, only a little less calmly, says: “Listen Eddie Bauer, don’t mess with my girl just cause you’re stuck in khaki.”

California is astoundingly beautiful and solipsistic.  Sunny and cool and utterly unaware of the weather conditions of others.  On Saturday morning mid-winter, there are one million dollars worth of palm trees and fifty people in the park eating bagel sandwiches, sucking up the skyline.  Surrounded by grass and babies and gay fathers in thin t-shirts, it is impossible to conceptualize snow. Back in Brooklyn on Wednesday night, I’ll have to remind myself to pull on tights and sweaters before I leave the house.  I’ll have completely forgotten the numbness of an uncovered face on the train platform, tired and hungry and made impatient by an after-class pint.

And here is what you’ve all been waiting for

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