I’m not sure if today is my friend Christy’s birthday, but I do know that she will be celebrating at the second annual birthday bash. This party last year (the first annual) was monumental for a couple reasons. First, almost immediately upon arriving I went to use the bathroom. Nothing unusual about that, but as I’d placed my brand new, picture-taking cell phone in the back pocket of my tight, low-fitting jeans, the phone (pre-toilet-use-by-me) went flying into the basin and sunk to the bottom like a sad, silver, expensive piece of excrement. My immediate response was to grab it and run it under the faucet (right, because more water was a good idea). The phone proceeded to beep through the night, and then die. I know this only because Christy told me. I left the phone there to annoy her as she tried to sleep long after J and I left. Why did I forget it? Well, that might be because halfway through the party I started getting pretty tired and decided it might be time me for one of my famous drinking naps, which are always preceded by the statement, “Don’t worry, I’ll be up in a few minutes.” I got on the bed with Christy’s dog, snuggled close, and passed out. Little did I know that due to the low-fitting jeans my ass was showing, but you know, just a little bit as our friend Brian explained to me MONTHS later. “WHY DIDN’T YOU TELL ME THEN???” I had to ask him when I learned of this atrocity, to which he responded “It was cute!” to which I responded, “Doesn’t matter should have told me!” and then proceeded to bring up the fact that he’d been a bad friend in the matter of keeping my body covered instead of checking it out and laughing at me every time we’d go out. Finally, right before he finished up grad school and moved away, Brian decided that I might need some real payback for his actions and after a few (hundreds of?) drinks, he showed me his ass as we were leaving a bar. “Now we’re even,” he said. Indeed, we were more than even.

Without Christy’s birthday, I never would have had a cell phone in the toilet story. Curiously, the one I bought as a replacement almost exactly one year ago died this week in some sort of sick anniversary celebration. I also never would have gotten to see some major booty while out on Franklin Street. Happy birthday, girl. Bottoms up.

I realize I’ve been talking about this a somewhat excessive amount lately, but I can’t wait for it to get warm.

It’s taken me a long time to admit this freely. I always prided myself on liking the winter. I still do. Snow, of any sort, still sends me into childlike, frenzied anticipation - so much so that if it begins at night, I awake the next morning, tip toe to the window (so as not to disturb the magic) and only peek through the curtain to what lays outside - is it? - could it be? - AW DAMNIT! Most of the time, that’s the response down here in good old North Carolina. People get way more excited about the harsh weather (except hurricanes, those are simply a completely destructive part of life) but true snow days are a rarity. And come on southern people, I’m talking about more than a dusting. A SNOW DAY where you stay inside because you really can’t move your car. Not you don’t know how to move your car in the slick road covering, you can’t move your car.

That’s my first point. I mean, if we aren’t going to have real snow and snow days I’m ready for summer - or at least spring which is just as good down here. Spring and fall are marvelous seasons of glorious blue skies and cool, comfortable nights. Even the hottest days of summer are bearable because everyone has pools and the bars have decks and sidewalk tables.

During my four years in Boston I only remember two or three instances where I thought to myself, “Good God, I’m going to die,” because of the freezing weather which proves to me this: I was crazy. I mean, it’s fucking cold in Boston! We used to bundle up in large coats, scarves, hats, and then waddle on down to the bar. We got so used to it that sometimes, after the tequila had warmed our extremities, we’d walk home. Sure, it was only a mile or so, but walk home in the winter in Boston. Crazy people.

I was just walking to get a salad from the pizza place down the block gasping at the extreme weather. I couldn’t help exclaiming to Josephine when I got back in the office, “Man, it is COLD out there.” Check the most reliable weather source online - current conditions, 43 degrees. 43! Looks like all Boston was good for was an education, a bunch of memories, great friends, and the love of a baseball team that finally won the World Series (no, J, it isn’t wrong to love them just because I went to school there. You cheer for UNC, right?). But weather-wise I’m going to have to start at square one if I ever hope to live somewhere cold again. But life’s short. Maybe that’s not even an option.

In Boston, it snowed a lot, which was great, and when spring rolled around for one beautiful day, that was great day. Summer, although of course great by its very nature, wasn’t as great. Not in Boston. It was just hot. Hot is good anywhere if you get into some nice summertime relaxing, but its best here. These are the best summers I think I’ve experienced, save the firefly-catching, school’s out, vacations in Maine days of childhood.

I was walking today, like I mentioned before, to get my lunch and all of a sudden heard this blaring hip hop music from a nearby car. I looked over and saw a very white guy, windows down, just living it up, blaring his music for all of this quaint little town to hear. And I thought, “Man, summer better get here fast.” Windows open. Bathing suit on under normal clothes. Flip flops. He wasn’t wearing that, of course, but he got me thinking.

J has always said summer is his favorite because you just “wake up, roll out of bed, and throw on a pair of shorts.” I’ll have you know this is a blatant lie, because the day the boy gets up and puts on anything, shorts included, without taking a shower will be a truly extraordinary day. But I do like the idea. And I like talking to him about it. The feeling of slightly sunburned skin after a day swimming in the pool, or at the beach. Getting clean, and sleeping with just the sheets, waking up, rolling out of bed. It’s more difficult now. It’s cold. Just taking the dogs out requires multiple layers of clothing. But it’s March 3. 28 days til April, and in this state, that’s definitely a warm weather month. Chappy says we’re going to pick the week with the most beautiful forecast, go out on a Thursday, wake up on that Friday, take it easy, and drink beers outside all day until all our friends can get off work and meet us. That’s what I mean. It took me living here to realize that an agenda such as the one proposed for the most beautiful week in April is something worth treading through such cold, dreary months.