The Nor'Easter of 1883.

In the Midwest we call them blizzards. New England is a fickle lady who refuses to take shit from anybody, so here we call them Nor'Easters. We're raging against the 'th'.

On the one hand, this means I can sit in my pjs and drink coffee with Bailey's, read books, watch movies, knit some rectangles, paint, make a snow fort, and have dance parties to this amazing record which I purchased at my favorite, Night Owl, yesterday:

Unfortunately, this means I won't be finishing my list of things to accomplish this weekend. Sure, I could have done them yesterday, but we all know that Saturdays are for fun and carefree and lackadasical times. Sundays are the lima beans I push around on my plate and hope my mum won't notice the green mush I haven't eaten. Lima beans are disgusting.

Books on my bookshelf I have yet to read but will likely start during this epic Nor'Easter:

• Killing Yourself to Live: 85% a True Story, Chuck Klosterman.
• Fierce Invalids From Hot Climates, Tom Robbins.
• The Andy Warhol Diaries, Andy Warhol.
• How We Are Hungry, David Eggers.
• Glamourama, Bret Easton Ellis.
• Love in the Time of Cholera, Gabriel Garcia Marquez.
• The Botany of Desire: A Plant's Eye View of the World, Michael Pollan.
• Hey Nostradamus!, Douglas Coupland.
• Atonement, Ian McEwan.
• Urban Tribes, Ethan Watters.
• The History of Hip, John Leland.

Well shit, it looks like I need to start reading.

Mewmew. Thanks for helping make my little lemur a winner.