You know what, Weather? You can suck it.

Sometimes, I'm lucky enough to work from home (or just be home during the day on those days when I'm a jobless bum).

For the last two weeks, I've been banging keys in my own apartment. Sometimes I'd leave to run an errand or just to escape electronics for a bit.

But for the last two weeks, it's been lugubrious outside. The clouds hung like socks on a clothesline. The rain has pelted the ground like stones. The ground swelled and became soft.

On the few dry days we had, it was too hot to really enjoy anything. Skin cancer and sweat aren't a fun combination.

So I didn't mind that I'd be in an office all this week, absorbing whatever it is you absorb from fluorescent lights.

Until today.

Because today, it's fucking gorgeous outside.

Today is the day I should be walking around downtown. Today is a great day for poolside reading. Today is the day I shouldn't be "working."

I'm sure the clouds are getting a good laugh at all of us schmucks today. And next week when we all have the day off on Monday, just you watch. It'll rain.

The problem is that I'm too happy.

For whatever reason, creativity seems to flow in times of struggle.

When the painter is sad, she paints canvas after canvas of angry reds, weepy blues and bleak blacks.

When the song writer is frustrated, he pounds on the piano, he fills his notebook with new phrases and he pours his soul into a song.

When the writer is lonely, her pen moves swiftly and a never-ceasing string of the most beautifully combined words flows from her like ...

And then the writer gets stuck. Because she isn't lonely. She's actually quite the opposite.

She's very happy. Her life is happy. Everything around her is happy.

Love does wonderful things to a person. And horrible things to that person's writing time!

But this writer is fine with that. Maybe I'll stub my toe this week and come up with something witty.

I like my Coke with a capital C.

I knew better.

I knew that if I had the Coke*, then I wouldn't sleep for hours. It would get in my veins, my heart, my head and keep me frantically searching for something to do all night.

And that's exactly what it did.

I don't have Coke that often. Probably only once a month or so. But last night, I needed it. I needed it badly.

Around 8:30 PM, a waiter gave me my fix (waiters always have Coke, don't they?). About ten minutes later, he gave me some more. I didn't really want more, but how could I say no to more Coke?

So I made quick work of it. And it was so good.

Around midnight, I tried to go to sleep. But the Coke wouldn't let me.

I tossed. I turned. I stole the covers. I returned them.

Hours passed. Sleep couldn't fight with the chemicals in my system.

I rolled over and watched my fiance sleep. His eyes opened and he met my gaze for a few seconds. Then he continued sleeping. I bet he wasn't even awake. I recently wrote an article about the stages of sleep and it's not uncommon for people to open their eyes, speak, or even get up while in stage 2.

I rewrote the article in my head as I watched him sleep. While I was buzzing off of Coke.

At around 3:30, the boredom finally got to me. So I played mahjong. I watched infomercials. I sat through half of a movie.

I started to crash around 4:30. Finally, after around 7 hours, the Coke was finally wearing off.

I crept back into the bedroom and covered myself with the sheets. Sometime around 8:45, my fiance kissed me goodbye as he left for work.

I woke up embarrassingly late and mucked about all day. Maybe tomorrow I'll get some work done.

As long as I stay away from Coke tonight.

*Pepsi is for chumps. It's all about the Coca Cola.

They are invading my space. Again.

MySpace was the cool thing a few years back.

Then it was invaded with creepy, saggy old dudes who wanted to get nasty with young, tight chicks.

So we all fled to FaceBook. After all, you had to have a dot-edu email address to join.

Then they opened it up to corporations. Then they released the flood gates and everyone could join.

No biggie.

And now everyone's sixty-something year old babysitter from the seventies has joined. And we're all censoring our pages like crazy (which we should have done in the beginning).

Oh well. At least they aren't trying to sleep with the youngins. Yet.

Apparently, I'm old.

I have a spam problem.

I get the usual senseless spam--Viagra trials (I'm a chick), make-him-last-longer messages, clear-your-debt offers, and the list goes on.

But tonight I received a spam message that, well, freaked me out a little.

It's for the Hoveround (however it's spelled). You know, a motorized scooter for the elderly.

Now, I know I probably complained and talked about my ol' knee more than anyone cared to hear about. But does that really warrant a Hoveround? I'm walking quite well now.

My biggest question, though, is what website did I go to in order to land upon such a wrongly-targeted mailing list?

The sex aids make sense, I guess, cause I read Cosmo-esque articles online. I'm not ashamed of that. Every now and again, I'll read a celeb blog that'll say, "Hey, look at so-in-so's boobs!" And you know what? I'm going to be honest--I click. Because I want to compare those store bought boobs to mine. So ads that target nudity and stuff make sense.

The credit ads? I imagine everyone gets those. We all have bank accounts and credit cards.

The mortgage ads? Not that I own any property, but I'll chalk those up to doing credit checks and the like.

But a scooter for lame old people? That's pushing my buttons. I've spent too many thousands of dollars not to be lame (in the mobility sense). I would appreciate very much not to get ads reminding me of how much it blows being crippled.

How did I get on that list? Is it because I like to eat figs? I google "kittens?" My desktop is a bunch of flowers? I enjoy the smell of Bengay?

Oh, crap. It's because I watch the Golden Girls, isn't it?

I'm doomed.

My nose is broken.

I seriously think I've got some seriously messed up piping in my head.

Seriously.

I've got allergies that confuse doctors and snot that comes out of places it shouldn't (like my eyes, seriously, if that's too much for you to handle, you're obviously new to my crazy blog).

So I decided to give nasal lavage a try. What could it hurt? Worst case scenario, salt water would leak out of my eyes. Which it does naturally. Whatever.

I didn't go to the store and buy a netty pot. I actually received a free trial of Afrin Pure Sea nasal rinsing yadda yadda yadda. (I belong to this thing called Bzz Agent where you/I/we get free samples of new products. You/I/we are supposed to test them out and talk about them to friends, etc. You/I/we also get coupons to share. If you want to be a BzzAgent, let me know.)

So I read the instructions. I google "nasal rinsing" and watch videos. This sound easy! So I get the little bottle, lean over the sink, tilt my head and pour water into my nose.

What's supposed to happen is that the water will fill your nostril and then go through some tube in your nose and leave out the other nostril. If you do it improperly, water'll go down your throat and you'll hack a bit.

Well, the water went up my nostril and then ... I have no idea. I never swallowed it. It never came out my eyes. It never came back out my nose.

I think it's in my brain.

Confused, I pumped the little bottle of water into the sink. It worked. So I tried the other nostril. Again I assumed the position (ha) and sprayed water into my nose. I felt it collect into a little pool and then slowly overflow out the same nostril.

Perhaps I wasn't leaning enough? So I tilted my head more to the side and more forward. I'm now climbing onto the bathroom counter and damn near doing a handstand over the sink.

The water just sat there. Not going into the other nostril. Not going down my throat. Not cleaning anything.

This is physically impossible. So I right myself and the water just follows gravity.

I attempted to use this thing twice a day for two weeks. On the last day, I finally accidentally swallowed some water. But it never traveled to the other nostril.

So it's official. My nasal tubes are tied. Next time I go in for my quarterly nose/asthma check, I'll have my doctor take a look and make sure stuff's "normal." Cause if it ain't, well, what can I do?

Obviously not irrigate my nose.

If anyone wants a coupon for this thing, let me know. They're of no use to me.

I have not forsaken you, oh sweet blog!

Dear, sweet blog.

I know how you must feel.

Abandoned. Unloved. Forgotten.

This just isn't the case. I think about you constantly. I dream of you at night. I relive our fond times as I stare out of the window on a stormy day. I quietly laugh about your antics when I'm sipping my morning cup of coffee.

I miss you, blog. More than you could ever fathom.

I just haven't been worthy of you lately. I've needed a creative hiatus. Time to recharge. So I could come back strong and give you the full attention you deserve.

So wipe those teary eyes, blog. Because mama's coming home.