Sticking it to the man.

[Vintage fox fur stole + BR jacket + Vena Cava blouse + H&M vest + Gara Danielle turquoise necklace + Alice/Olivia leather leggings + Joie boots + Shopbop hat]

There aren’t many things I purposely do (or don’t do) just to spite authority. Ok, that’s a total lie; we’ve touched on this. Rob’s on this train since cohabitating with me for the past couple of years; I think it’s a good bone to grow. The last email I read from a friend signed off with the words: “Try to behave.” However.

We did our taxes. On time. We approached them with trepidation—sailed through the first few steps—I calmly asked Rob to pour me a beer; we smiled—the numbers grew somewhat staggering, despite our not being able to reason why (?!); Eli sank his teeth into my wrist—we wrapped things up, clicked save, and this happened:

In other news, Bromley Mountain closed today. No more jerky Yankees (sorry, inlaw family!) to storm up and down the village road and give me the hairy while I wrap up my 2.5 on the center treadmill. It’s the one with the view.

We decided to go inspect the slopes, say farewell to the season, and hope that the very aberration of my presence on the premises would force winter to finally throw up its hands and get the hell out of town.

Because if it doesn’t, mark my words: I will.

Although I can’t hate the built-in, bottle-cooling abilities, I do miss the way Vitamin D makes me not want to smash every mirror in the household, sleep until 7PM, or stimulate my senses by any means necessary, i.e. applying packing tape to Eli’s hindquarters and watching him attempt to remove it. [I’m not into animal cruelty; it’s shedding season and tape is cheaper and more pro-active than lint rollers.]

“Here’s to you, Old Man Wizzy,”

-Carey