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?

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On Monday, I went to the gym for the first time in.....well, I don't think I'm ready to reveal that yet. It's too embarrassing. But it was in a month beginning with "A." No, not April! I'm not that lazy. Oh alright, it was August. Yes, friends, before Monday, I hadn't been to the gym---which, I should point out, is LOCATED IN THE LOBBY OF MY OFFICE BUILDING, NOT LIKE I NEVER SEE IT OR ANYTHING---since August. Though in my defence, it was the very end of August. Like, maybe a week or so before the wedding. Maybe August 28th.

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We never actually planned to have a party to celebrate my birthday, but then walking home from work last week, Sean convinced me that we should. "Eh," I said. "Well, maybe just something laid-back."

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My birthday was terrific. My birthday was tremendous. My birthday was legen--

WAIT FOR IT!

--dary (see, I told you we'd been on a bit of a How I Met Your Mother kick lately.) Thank you all for your lovely birthday wishes, which I imagined you reciting personally and individually to me in dulcet tones while a harp played poetically in the background (hey, much better than scrolling through them on my iPhone.) 

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I got this crazy idea in my head that I wanted to eat a pain au chocolat on the morning of my birthday. Yes, I did just call it a pain au chocolat and not a chocolate croissant, partly because one of my most admittedly ridiculous pet peeves is the mispronunciation of the word  "croissant." Look, I know we can't all be Gerard Depardieu, but when I hear "cruh-saaaawnt"---or, worse, croissandwich---it makes me want to stab myself in the eye with a butter knife, a butter knife that is coated in butter from the croissant I just buttered.

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Before I shut up about it once and for all, I would like to tell you a little bit about my birthday. First of all, if you can swing it, I highly recommend taking the day off work for your birthday, particularly if your birthday is on a Monday. This way you can stay in bed until 11am, reading your new library book (Lorrie Moore's A Gate at the Stairs, very enjoyable so far), periodically cackling to yourself with self-important glee because NO MORNING MEETING FOR YOU HAHAHA.

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Ah, Valentine's Day, a time for love and romance, right? A time to book a spontaneous trip to Paris for two---to Paris in the springtime, no less!

Yes, I did just that: I booked a trip next month to Paris. The City of Love! I booked a trip to the place where romance hides in every Eiffel Tower sunset, lingers in every late-night dinner of steak frites. I booked this trip on Valentine's Day. But I didn't book it for me and Sean. Oh no, I booked it for me and my sister.

I know, kind of kills the buzz, right?

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Okay, first of all I should say that those tissue pompoms I made for my 30th birthday party weren't my idea at all. Much like a large majority of the crafty things I do, I ripped them straight off from the grand highness herself, Martha Stewart.

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“All the bells and whistles” as “all the Belgian whistles.” Someone said this on a phone call I was on once. I had to put myself on mute to snort.

“Providence” as “Pro-VYE-dence.” That was my friend Victoria when she was visiting me in Connecticut from England a million years ago and we saw a sign on the freeway. I still can’t read about Pro-VYE-dence, Rhode Island without pronouncing it like that in my head. It sounds kind of nice I think.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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Look, I know it's a lot of money. And it's not just that it's a lot of money, it's that it's a lot of money for a vacuum. But Internet, I am not lying to you when I say that the Dyson we bought a few months ago has actually changed my life. I have become a person who---wait for it---CANNOT WAIT TO CLEAN THE HOUSE. I know! It's grotesque! What kind of weirdo am I? But somehow, cleaning the house with the Dyson is so extraordinarily satisfying---be gone, cat hair!

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