welcome, welcome, fa hoo ray moos

Next week is going to be great.

Tuesday I'm getting my hair cut, short. To the guys who have told me that girls with short hair are unattractive, I say, just wait.

Wednesday are double brand new episodes of Psych. USA. 10/9c. Wait for iiiiiiiit.

Thursday I'm taking my parents into Chicago to see White Christmas on Broadway. HOW. STOKED. AM. I. Dad doesn't know yet. I told him to clear his schedule for Thursday, and sometimes I pretend to slip up and accidentally give away the surprise. "I hope the weather's nice for when we go skiing next week - oops!" He has no idea the stemming and the plotzing and the shushing that's in store.

Next weekend I'm taking my final trip to KY to pick up my car and move the rest of my stuff into my duplex, affectionately nicknamed Mab (shortened from Mabsoot Manor, "mabsoot" meaning "happy" in Hebrew), before the final move-in after New Year's. Sometimes I very much wish I were still eight and adulthood is a long way off. Then other times I remember times like these and I'm ready:



And on my way back from KY I'm stopping by someone I haven't seen in far too long, for some quality Christmas cheer and friendship. We're going to go ice skating, hold hands, build gingerbread houses, and then...we'll snuggle.

I cannot wait.