It’s cold, very cold. According to the thermometer in my car (which is truly the only way I ever know how warm or cold it actually is), it was THIS cold yesterday:

The pipes in my kitchen have frozen. No hot water = no dishwashing. While I suspect that the shitty little sink might be getting back at me for continually mocking both its size (doll house) and its disposal-less status, I cannot worry about it or the fact that it’s now full of crusty, dirty dishes:

I also cannot worry about ice patches on the road, or about the stratospheric, giant ice-filled potholes on my street, which apparently is one of the few streets over which neither the city nor the borough has jurisdiction (it turns out that the buck stops with nobody).
I also cannot worry about Elliot Spitzer and his toe-sucking escapades, from which I am desperate to shield the boys, even though the Post is conspiring against me.

You see, because I have a talent, a gift really, for worrying about things over which I have no control and which impact my life not in the slightest, I am worrying about none of this and am instead shvitzing about poor Dennis Rodman.
I’ve seen the creepy, unhinged video footage of his “trip” to North Korea and I’m certain that they’re holding him hostage and torturing him when nobody is watching. Good will trip, my ass. That man is terrified. NBA star today, puppy chow tomorrow. (In case you missed it, after reading the Post one morning, Bennett marched into my bedroom and announced: “The baby-faced leader of North Korea fed his uncle to the dogs.” And I thought Chris Christie was scary.)
Trust me, I’m right about this. And even if I’m not, it’s allowing me to avoid worrying about things that actually affect me.
Like whether Spitzer brushed his teeth after. Ok, I’ll stop.