▶ I’m going to make a HUGE generalization. If you wanted anything more from the opening ceremony of the Winter Olympics than what Putin served then I will venture to guess you are likely to also be one of those people who abandons your shopping cart in the middle of the canned foods aisle to get ice cream from the freezer section two aisles over. That is to say, there was nothing–NOTHING–more you needed from that glorious festival of garbage and if there was then you must enjoy swinging a bag of kittens against a wall. What I witnessed–what my see rocks partook in–was the celestial intersection of all the elements any successful internationally televised event must aspire to have: 1) a Julie Taymor-inspired aerial action sequence  2) a movement piece interpreting the political bloodshed of Josef Stalin 3) a presumably tired and sweaty Lady Gaga managing to escort every athlete through the Parade of Nations 4) drunk cherubs in puffer vests and 5) those inflatable tube men outside of car lots (and that, my friends, is the true meaning of Christmas!) No but really didn’t this just make your night? It sure did mine. I can’t help but become hopelessly enraptured by the Olympics–even the Winter Olympics–despite the nagging voice in the back of my noodle which astutely points out that success in these games is predominantly measured not by athletic prowess as much as it is by wealth or proximity to it. Like, yes, I’m sure bobsledding is physically grueling and requires a great amount of discipline but your sled is sponsored by BMW so if you have an issue with that, Lolo Jones, please take it up with (1st) the kids of PS 24 in the Bronx and then (2nd) my lawyer, Finn, who is a dog. Anyway, this weekend was momentous for me in that it marked the beginning of the next two weeks in which I will spend each evening avoiding human contact so I can watch Shawn White and his impossibly high cheekbones win some medals.

▶ Speaking of Sochi this week NBC’s big tree of man, Willie Geist, informed me and the rest of the country that Russia has crab-flavored potato chips and to that I say: Congratulations, America! We’ve managed to mangle and pervert a lot of things in our time but we haven’t dipped our toe into the shellfish-flavored snack food water and that is nothing to sneeze at. Little victories.

▶ I came across the most nifty and Duh-Why-Didn’t-I-Think-Of-That solution for pot lids on Apartment Therapy and so far it’s worked beautifully. The lids have stayed on their hooks, I am not fumbling on my knees, straining my shoulder and mashing my face against the cabinet, reaching for them anymore and Finn–surprise!–saw me take out a camera and ran in to photobomb the shot. What this photo does not show are the texts I sent my mom, cousin, best friend, neighbor, old college roommate and high school swim coach proclaiming my (stolen) ingenuity or how, after doing so, I had to take a timeout to examine what my life has become and why I’m this excited over cupboard organization.▶ Have I whined enough about the weather here in New York yet, you guys? Probably. Do I care? Nope. Here’s a picture of how heavy and gorgeous and wonderful the snow made the city last week. Everything was blanketed and soft and, even though it was bitterly cold and balmy, looking up to see these white tentacles everywhere was pretty great, so don’t say I never stop to make some lemonade now and again. I have it within me!

▶ I have been thinking about adding a pair of Tapio Wirkkala candlesticks to the sideboard next to my front door but I’m not willing to pay the price. Searching online I found most of the candlesticks claiming to be Tapio Wirkkala originals are actually knock-offs, and in this instance that’s a good thing. A knock-off is actually what I’m looking for because I want to sand them down, maybe do something funky with the color, and I’d have a hard time justifying that to my conscience (and my wallet) if they were actually vintage TWs. That being said, it has been HELL trying to explain to sellers that what they have is, in fact, not an original nor is it worth what they are asking. When did this start, this whole overselling and under-delivering thing that has apparently run rampant among online sellers? For me, when I put something online to sell, I feel like I have to incentivize the damn thing just to get it to move, like I’m the fucking Ron Popeil of eBay. Well, I don’t like it and I won’t stand for it! Your shit smells like shit and not like roses so get over yourself, middle-aged woman in Central Florida, and sell me your overpriced replica candlesticks so you can have an extra $20 in your pocket and I can have more pretentious objects to put in my home, OK?

▶ Full disclosure, I’ve had a lot on my mind recently in regards to my energy and where and with whom I’m choosing focus it versus where and with whom I know I should really be focusing it –you know, terribly self-absorbed and millennial thoughts that I will NOT bore you with further–and as a result I’ve opted to spend a little more time alone for the moment, which is how I found myself in front of a my television at 9:30pm on a Saturday evening weighing the the pros and cons of Wesley Warren Jr and his gargantuan crotch melon over another episode of Real Housewives on Demand. I’m ashamed to say I went with Wesley and his enormous nut, you guys. Here’s the thing: THAT GUY WAS LOVING HIS BIG BALL. I mean, that might be terrible and judgey to put out there but he sure seemed like he didn’t want to get that thing lopped off any time soon. Instead Ol’ Wesley there seemed to truly and genuinely enjoy what the ball gave him socially; the opportunity to interact with anyone with a sympathetic ear. The best was when he met a doctor–finally he met a doctor after 40 minutes of writhing around on the floor, calling his senator’s office and crying to his secretary (why? who knows) and launching a kickstarter campaign to help him pay for the surgery (but really it was for his rent)–who could help him but all Wesley wanted to talk about was how he hadn’t seen his penis in six years and how he didn’t realize the penis was even gone and where the doctor thought that penis went and, oh God, Doc, will you be able to dig that penis out, and the doctor was obviously uncomfortable since minutes earlier he had told him they just needed to remove the growth and he and his penis would be fine. Also Wesley wanted to auction his severed testicle off online and the look that befell the doctor’s face was worth everything I had endured thus far. So, in conclusion, uh, yea, I need to take a cold, hard look at my life and get things in order, you could say, if this is how I’m voluntarily choosing to spend my weekend evenings, hanging pot lids and watching testicular surgeries. I acknowledge that.