**UPDATE** My dear friend Melissa pointed out that I spelled “Weirdo” incorrectly in the title. oops.

It’s easy to forget that you’re weird when you live in New York City.

I think even my Connecticut friends got over it when, at dinner, I would shriek, “No one cut the cake yet! I need to take a picture.” And when it’s as something as special as a once-a-year cream puff at the Big E, well, of course I’m going to photograph it from every angle so I can get the very best shot.

There I was, snapping away, turning the plate, moving the fork, adjusting my camera, Rob waiting patiently because he’s used to all of this, and people started to stare at me. I took photos of everything we ate at the Big E, but the cream puff was the only thing we had at a table with people surrounding us, and I was causing quite a few raised eyebrows. A guy walked up to me and asked, “Are you writing about this?”

“Huh?” I said. I was “in the zone” and was changing my ISO for the fourth time.

“You know. You put it on the internet and then write comments about it and stuff.”

“Oh… yeah. I’m blogging about it.” I stiffened my fingers and moved my hands up and down, my universal and unconscious sign for “blogging”.

“You get paid a lot for that?”

I laughed. “Not quite.”

“Ah. Cool.” He shrugged and walked away, and it was then that I noticed people whispering about me, the weird girl treating her dessert like a Playboy model.  And I remembered that it was weird to take photos of food you just bought, and put my camera away with my cheeks burning.  But why should I be ashamed?  I’m learning.  It’s a good thing.

Ah, well, here’s to us, the weird ones, who take photos that are “ugly” or “boring” in hopes of learning and remembering.  I salute you all with a cream puff.

p.s. if you start a rock band and want to steal the title of this post for your band name, go ahead, and rock ON with your bad self!

I don’t get it, but it sure looks fun.

Happy weekend.

When we moved to the city I told Rob that, should we ever have to move back to the suburbs, I’m getting a hot tub. I loved living in Trumbull because my friends where there and now that I’m gone, I miss the four gazillion parks and the fact that I could drive to Target without paying $4 for parking every time, meaning I could go without making a list and checking it over and over obsessively, because heaven forbid I get home from a Target run in Brooklyn and realize I forgot the fabric softener; you can’t just hop back in your car and drive back without dealing with the traffic and the parking fees, and I will never, ever be ok with this.

But at the end of the day I’d rather be here than there, however if I was THERE… I’d have a hot tub. And it would probably be one of these.

Believe it or not, I was recently wondering about the logistics of having a hot tub heated by firewood (and the only conclusion I reached was building a fire underneath, cauldron-style, which wouldn’t really work that well obviously), and then lo-and-behold I came across this ingenious wood-heated hot tub solution, with the fire off to the side so you can be toasty but not cooked alive.

It looks a little weird, but it would save a ton on electricity and you could use it without chemicals. Actually I think it’s pretty cute! And it’s very portable, so I could take it camping!

It’s designed to be carried easily by two people (it weighs about 165 pounds) and has an optional rack that makes it very easy for one person to move around.

I wonder if I could get one of these in Brooklyn? Probably. It looks like these people did!

Hey, Rob…?

available at dutchtub.com, $6000

p.s. Now I know why these look mildly familiar: Kirby!

Anyone who has more rescued dogs than I do (13 more!) can tag me for anything she wants to. I’m not sure if these are “random” and “weird” enough things, but I had a go.

Kym, this one is for you!

Rob and I name a lot of things. There was the $30 DVD player named Morty that lasted as long as you would figure a $30 DVD player would. There’s Nader, the plant, named thus because he’s Green. Fussy is my 70′s VW microbus will take you from point A to point B eventually (although that probably is less about her and more about my driving skills.) My piggy bank is Petunia, and there is a pigeon that lives near my apartment called Mangle, because his foot is all bent up. I feed him bread crust.

I keep really good secrets. I’m a vault. (I’m also non-judgmental and only dispense advice when asked for it. This combination makes me a good person to chat with if you’re having issues.)

My trio of dogs is the unwitting audience of frequent impromptu dance recitals. I tappity-tap and shuffle my heart out, and they stare blankly back at me, blinking occasionally. I’m not sure if the joke is on them or on me.

There’s a lovely list of things I like in my “About” section. Here is a list of things that I don’t: breast implants, wearing jeans, people who track mud in from out, men who use the street as their own personal spittoon, taking off in an airplane, the level of interference the United States government has on its citizens, fondant, chain smokers, peach ice cream, and short socks.

I’m painfully gullible. Unfortunately my brother-in-law has figured this out.

If you see something happen to me that would cause a normal person to freak out, and it looks like it hasn’t registered, it’s not because I’m stoned, it’s because the “OHMYGAWD!” part of my brain looks up at half a dozen eggs splattered on the kitchen floor, shrugs, and goes back to her book.

I can do the Frug. I can do the Robocop. I can do the Freddie. I cannot do the Smurf.