I got some weird looks this morning as I walked from my desk to the office kitchen. And then I got a few more when I walked from my desk to the office bathroom.

Awesome, I thought. I have a poppy seed from that bagel stuck in my teeth. Either that or my dress is tucked into my tights at the back again. I was even wearing the same dress.

It occurred to me recently that I am forever singing the praises of things I like, but---with the exception of that horrible nasty sorbet that hoodwinked me last year---I rarely remember to write about the things I don't like, the things I think I'll like which then end up letting me down.

If there's one thing I'm not good at*, it's making snap decisions. No, I am definitely a girl who likes to prepare. This becomes a trifle inconvenient when I need to calculate a tip, and even worse when I take a taxi or have food delivered and need to calculate a tip on demand. Have you ever tried to do math under pressure? While being watched to see if you're carrying the one and/or conveying the correct amount of respect---via a percentage of your total bill, of course---for the plight of the poor deliveryperson? It's daunting. Or at least it's daunting for me.

I think I could live in America for the rest of my life and I would still not really understand Groundhog Day. It catches me off guard every year. I'll be making polite small talk about the weather with someone in an elevator or a shop and all of a sudden they'll smile and say jovially "well, they say we've got six more weeks of winter left, of course!"

And I'll blink and look confused and think wait, did I miss something on the Weather Channel?

Friends, I have found the chink in my armor. It's not that I can't do a cartwheel or burp on command or count to five on my fingers without inadvertently putting the pinkie before the ring finger EVERY SINGLE TIME, none of which I have ever been able to do. No, the chink in my armor is that I cannot make homemade pizza. I have failed miserably at making homemade pizza on every occasion that I've tried it, tonight being no exception.

I should probably tell you right now that this story is going to be a little bit gross. If you have eyes, and I assume you do, the odds are fairly high that you are going to squinch them shut quite suddenly while reading it, not unlike a man who flinches and subconsciously reaches protectively for his testicles whenever he stumbles across the word "castration." This story has to do with eyes you see, my eyes in particular, and people have sort of a thing about eyes.

Tell me, have you ever been to a Lenscrafters? I had an appointment there for an eye exam this afternoon and it was such a bizarre experience that I don't think I've fully processed it yet. The only way I can think to explain it is....well, have you seen Austin Powers?

Attention! I have some things to say about the women's bathroom. Specifically, I have some things to say about the people who are using the women's bathroom, and I don't mean one women's bathroom in particular---although there's one in my office building that's certainly on notice for the moment---but rather all women's bathrooms everywhere.

Remember how in 80s movies, everyone always hung out at the mall? And they ate frozen yogurt and went shoe-shopping and got their ears pierced?

I thought we'd take a bit of a break from all the wedding wedding wedding stuff around here, especially since pretty soon it's going to be more like wedding wedding wedding wedding wedding wedding wedding wedding wedding wedding wedding wedding wedding wedding wedding, all the way through August. Sorry about that!