The bright side

Who: Me
What: Wallowing-by-text message with The Modern Gal about the 10 miles of awfulness.
When: Yesterday.
Where: My laundry-covered sofa.
Why: Because that's how I roll.
How: Behold...

And that, my lovelies, is why it pays to have BFFs who always look on the bright side -- even when it comes to chafing. After all: They help you defunk your sulking and make you laugh.

Yay for friends! And yay for a good running metaphor.

P.S. YEOWW! Let my red, swollen, painful chin be a reminder to pay attention to Good Form Running, especially when you're tired.

P.P.S. And thus ends my bad-run wallowing. The self-imposed time limit has expired.

We run this town.

My view on a run. (Well, one of them.)

I used to be intimidated by Chicago's Lakefront path. In the warmer months, it's overflowing with people -- runners, bikers, rollerbladers, walkers, teenagers, tourists, beach goers, dog walkers, stray children who don't look before they dart in front of your bike, giving you a heart attack at 6 a.m. on your commute to work and making you think that you'll hit them and either kill them or die yourself in a crash. (Sorry... projecting.)

It took me a while to get used to frantic pace while still being able to keep my cool. (It's been more than six years since I moved here, and I still know my sanity will always be tested if I ride south of Fullerton on a warm summer afternoon. Been there, been hit in the head with the football by the drunk frat boys.) (True story.) (I also got hit by a flag attached to a passing triple-wide stroller. You can't make this shit up.)

I live about two blocks from the 18-mile-long paved path that runs along the waterfront. To dodge the crowds -- and my own insecurities when I started running -- I'd usually veer along winding dirt paths that splinter off from the main north-south thoroughfare. Sure, they might be muddy and devoid of bathrooms and water fountains. But they offered this incredibly different experience of exercising in the city. Running right along the water's edge, I'd loop around Montrose Harbor, following the shoreline south past the golf course and then trace the outline of Belmont Harbor before turning back north to finish a 5-mile route. You'd get spectacular views of the skyline while passing a few runners and picnickers off the main drag. (I learned the disastrous way NOT to bring the Mutt Puppy on these runs after an ill-fated outing where she stopped roughly every 500 feet to roll around in smelly goose poo and fish detritus.)

A storm washed out a huge part of my favorite splinter path last summer, so I've found other routes to call my own. In the winter, when the sun sets before 5 p.m., I hit the main trail. (Because treadmills are the devil.)  It's a wholly different experience to be out there in January. Bundled up in gaiters and balaclavas, you still see just a few runners and cyclists who are out in the cold. You nod as you pass each other, offering the trail version of a high-five. (I've been known to let out a loud squeal when the snowflakes start falling and the wind gusts kick up in single-degree weather.)

RunChi shirt from CafePress.

This past summer, I'd ride my bike six miles down to Oak Street Beach on Saturday mornings to get in a swimming workout while I was training for a triathlon. One morning in particular it felt like the path -- and the entire city -- was alive. It was warm and sunny on the way south as I passed my Chicago Endurance Sports teammates training for the marathon. Along the way I spotted an outdoor yoga class, cycling groups, people doing bootcamps, tennis players, people flying kites, walking dogs, fishing, picnicking and swimming. I finished my workout with this ridiculous grin, so proud of my city and the people in it. It was just one of those moments when I felt so much civic pride. I was so stoked to be able to call myself part of Chicago's dynamic running community.

The path is this weird place full of conflict when it's crowded and yet full of serenity when it's not. (And the views of the city are mind-blowing.) When I saw this photo posted on a Facebook page, I knew I'd have to share it.

If you're ever up this way, let me know -- I'll show you my trail. Just make sure you bring your camera.

Fa-la-la-la-laing

My calendar says September. My mind is on late December and the Christmas holidays. The season sneaks up so quickly, especially when I have the comical idea in my head (and with the best of intentions) that I'm going to try to do handmade gifts for my best girlfriends.

So what am I doing right this very moment? (I mean, other than typing this blog, smartass? Don't make me come over there.) Making up my holiday shopping list. Relatives, 'rents, girlfriends, and church friends are going on there and everything from fresh-baked bread and cookies to something Amy Butlery and AWESOME are on my list.

Of course, I'm me. So I'm freaking out about how I'll get everything done in time. And budgeted accordingly. But, whatever. I LOVE the holidays. I love the smell of the kitchen and the way my condo smells when I come home to my fresh(ish)-cut tree. I love the colors. The smiles. I love the time together with the people I love the most. I love caroling on the church porch. I even like the snow and the cheesy animatronic window displays at Marshall Field's Macy's.

Mmmmmmmmm.

So before I get it in my head that I'm going to bake some sugar cookies RIGHT! THIS! SECOND!, I thought I'd ask where you are in your Christmas planning? Are you one of those obnoxious people who's done by July? Are you a Christmas Eve at the mall type person? Handmade? Latest gadgets?

In which it is chilly.

Yeah yeah. I know. It's Chicago. And it's January. And I live on a condo with insulation from the 1920s. And blah blah blabby blabby blah.

Whatever.

It was freakin' frigid in my house this week and my poor little 25-year-old furnace was struggling to keep up. (Fact: One night this week, I crawled under the covers, which included a cotton flat sheet, a fleece blanket, an old thin down comforter, a regular comforter, a bedspread and, just for added heft, an unzipped sleeping bag.) (Fact: I later kicked off the sleeping bag.) (Fact: I briefly missed the ex-live in boy and his heated mattress pad. Briefly.)

Anyway, since I first wrote about the geniusness of my sleeping bag inspired splants, my sleeping bag has been getting a lot of use around my house. However, since it was so cold, the Mutt Dog decided she should commandeer it for her own exclusive snuggling pleasure.

Can you spy the Mutt Dog?


Ooooh. Excuse me. I've disturbed her royal highness. Pardon me, Macy.


How about some treats? And we'll call it even.

Screw the snuggie. SPLANTS.

That's right, you blanket with sleeves you. I've got my sleeping bag. Specifically, my LL Bean sleeping bag that was purchased sometime around 1989 for a Girl Scouts camping trip.

Since I live in Chicago...
And since it was -1 this morning...
And I have paper thin walls that I swear lack insulation...
And since I have somehow become coldblooded....
And because I'm dying, DYING to start a new fashion craze...

I've taken to zipping myself into my sleeping bag and going about my life in my condo. I watch TV zipped into my sleeping bag. I work on the computer. I play with the mutt dog. I have napped in it too. The only thing I have yet to do while my lower half is ensconced is laundry and cooking. (Mainly because walking in it is kind of like waddling. But with the equivalent of socks on a recently Pledge-covered wood floor.)

While I'm basically waiting to bite it any time now, I think I've come up with a COMPLETELY BRILLIANT IDEA!! There could be a market for Sleeping Bag Pants. SPLANTS!!!!!!

Basically, I'd add suspenders to hold it up, and sorta feet thingies to give me traction. And arm holes. Maybe a few pockets. How effing awesome with that be? (Sidebar, I'm working on a picture of me wearing my splants. Lacking my suspenders and arm holes, photographing it by my self has proven to be a wee bit difficult.

Anyway, I wanted to share my genius with you. Which also might explain why I am, and continue to be, single.

The end.

ADDENDUM: Promptly after writing this, I waddled my splants-wearing self from my desk to the sofa and promptly fell asleep for 2+ hours. Moral of the story: Splants are only for the trained professional.

The end. (Really, this time.)

Boots! Glorious, boots!

I've been cursed when it comes to boots. At least since I've moved to Chicago.

This sucks for a lot of reasons, primarily because in Chicago good boots are about as important as breathing. Think I'm exaggerating? You try to have cold wet feet for six months out of the year and see how full of sunshine you are!

When I moved here three years ago, my coworkers got me a $150 giftcard to Northface as a going away present. My first few days in town, I hit up the store and plopped down $175 on the sturdiest pair of boots I could fine. I tried them on. Tromped around the store and left the store 20 minutes later, boots in hand.

Stupid. Stupid. Extra stupid.

The neophite that I was never factored in the fact that I would have to haul my ass to the train, a half mile away. And back. And then all around downtown. In the heaviest boots on the planet. After about 20 minutes in the things, which had style only Neil Armstrong could appreciate, my feet started to fall asleep. My shins hurt from the walking. Driving was terrifying since I could barely bend my ankle. And eventually, one of the grommets popped off. (Note missing grommet and note that these are in my To Be Donated pile.)



The next winter, I bought a pair of fake Uggs. They were warm and snuggly, but that may be their only redeeming quality. Uggs _ real or faux _ were apparently never made to be worn in snow since they were a) not waterproof and b) lacked the proper traction to keep me upright in the snow and keep my ass bruise free.


I shelved the Fuggs (get it? Faux Uggs?) and picked up a pair of fleece-lined golashes at Target. They were warm enough with thick socks and I could walk in them _ once I got calluses over the blisters they caused. They lasted until March when they sprung a leak after the heel seperated from the sole. I even tried my hiking boots. They were great on the snow, but I had to walk with my arms way out to the sides for balance every time I hit the marble floors of my office or condo (Alas, I'm not so much with the grace.)

Two winters. Three pairs of ineffective boots. Lots of money wasted. And lots of time wasted, too. (Without a backyard, taking a dog on a walk three times a day is NO FUN when you have to stop and lace up your boots and unlace them every time.)

That's why this fall, I became a woman possessed. I researched. I measured. I hopped, stomped, bounced, and read reviews. And I'm happy to report that I am typing this wearing my new-and-fabulous winter boots.



They're lightweight, but warm. They can tough out temperatures of -40. They fit my calves. They feel like sneakers. They come to a few inches below my knee, perfect for the snow drifts here. I'm pretty convinced I can walk for miles in them. And they are going to KICK WINTER'S ASS. Hear that Mother Nature? Me and my boots? They're made for walking. And, honest to God, if I have to buy another pair of snow boots in the next decade, I'm throwing something.

March can bite me.

In like a lion, out like a lamb, huh? Fat freakin' chance.

Want visual proof? Here's my neighbor's gate yesterday morning.


This shot was taken about 30 seconds before I discovered that not one, but two of my boots had sprung leaks. Of course, I'm karmicly challenged when it comes to snow gear, so, I spent the day with parading around in my caribou-emblazoned purple-and-blue socks trying to get my feet to dry between errands.

Remember growing up how your mom always said to wear good underwear so in case you were in an accident and you had to go to the hospital, you wouldn't be embarrassed? (Please, please, please tell me this was a universal Mom Lesson. If not, a certain someone and I are going to have a twee chat.) Well, it turns out that the same applies to ugly socks during snow/rain. Because I really LOVED walking around the hallways of the Old Town School of Folk Music in my socks featuring mammals of the Alaskan wilderness. (Also, come to think of it, you never know when you'll *meet* someone, so that alone is enough reason to banish the granny panties forever.)

The snow wasn't that bad _ even if it was heavy and wet. All told, we got about 3 inches here in the city. Totally manageable and at least it's _ hopefully _ the last snow of the season. I'm keeping my fingers crossed because I refuse to buy another set of boots. At least for the time being.

Winter? Or season of frosty discontent?

Two weeks ago, I cracked.

I had my annual existential crisis that is brought on, like clockwork, by the seriously horrible, dismal, never-ending days of wet, cold, dreary, blustery, icy, frozen, hurts-to-breathe cold winter.

Put another: Winter can suck it.

But, instead of taking my own advice, I have instead chosen to spend the past two weeks wallowing and avoiding the world, which, for the record, is one of the many things I am skilled at.

Consequently, my kitchen is filled with crusty wine glasses and dishes, dirty socks are everywhere except the sock drawer, I have spent whole weekends without leaving the house for much other than church and I have filled my Facebook page with bitchy status updates. ("Noodles thinks you might be a nice person, but is going to assume that you are a puppy-eating psychopath since you didn't bother to shovel and de-ice your sidewalk. Asshole.")

But even moping gets old. Which is kind of where I am now. (Did you know you can be bored with being bummed? I didn't.) Except now, I'm sick of snow and ice and three-digit gas bills and picking rock salt out of my carpets while surrounded by a stacked pile of needs-to-be-washed jammies and a dog who has taken to carrying a Scrabble tile holder around the house like it's her new bff.

Who wants to make me a stiff fruity drink served with an umbrella?

Alive and well in the not-too-cold tundra.

Well, howdy. Why, yes. I am in fact alive! Barely, thanks to a Mutant Hell Virus that decided I didn't need my intestines or any of the stuff in them and in fact, it all needed to get out of my body OMG, RIGHT THIS VERY SECOND.

Hell really must involve uncontrollable vomiting while sitting (yes, sitting) on a toilet. I'm sure you get the picture.

In retrospect, the bout of illness sucked a big one. But, I'm one of those annoying glass-half-full kind of girls. So, thanks to MHV I managed to drop 7 pounds. Admittedly, in 24 hours. But whatever. Beggars cannot, as they say, be choosers. I will take what I can on my quest to have pants fit again.

But, I digress. There's much more important things to say.

Like the fact that OMFG it's above freezing in Chicago. SERIOUSLY above freezing. (Weather.com widget says it's 44 right now. BAM!) If it stays this way tomorrow, I may very well strip off every article of winter clothing (including my oh-so-toasty base layer) and run around buck-ass naked in pure excited-for-spring celebration. I won't, of course, actually do this. Because, a) I am am not into getting arrested and b) I do not wind to blind any innocent bystanders. But I sure as shit will think about when I take the mutt for a romp in the sure-to-be-muddy park, or when I put air into my bike tires and run errands on my little two-wheeled baby for the first time in months.

Of course, it's going to get fucking frigid again soon, even if is going to be 53 degrees on Saturday. And I will, of course, cry. But I cannot, cannot, cannot WAIT to enjoy it.

Ice, Ice Baby

Perhaps you heard about the cold snap we in the Midwest (and really, everywhere, except you assholes in Florida and Southern California) suffered through in the past week. Here in Chicago, the windchill was around -40 for several days. Today, it's 13 and sunny, which makes it feel like spring break in Cabo by comparison.

But, just because I felt compelled to walk around outside without long johns and an extra layer of wool, it's still cold and icy. Like, red-state-on-Nov. 5 icy. Especially along the side of my building, where, by order of The Condo Board, all pet owners must take their mutts out for walks.

I've discussed my issues staying upright on ice at length, but suffice it to say that I risked life and limb to share these pictures with you.






This, btw, is one of the rain gutters along the side of my building. The ice coating goes up all four stories.



Ice gutter close up:


Who wants to fly me to the Bahamas for a few days!?

Vintage winter

Tomorrow's high is -1. That's right. The high temperature won't crack zero. That doesn't even account for the wind chill.

So, while I sip tea and procrastinate on writing something for work, I thought I'd share with you some great vintage winter pictures, courtesy of Millie Motts.

I like to think that this is a very chic 1940s or 50s version of my imaginary alter ego, running down the mountain to work, or to meet some handsome intellectual professor/scientist type while discussing global affairs and politics.

Graceful, I am not. Or, why winter can suck it.

Regardless of whether I completely change my tune in the dead-still heat of summer and get all wistful for autumn and crisp air (sweaters! yay!) and shit like that, let me go on record as say this: WINTER CAN BITE MY ASS.

Seriously.

Winter in Chicago is like a special breed of sadistic, pain-enducing, alcohol-swilling, blanket-layering, extremity-numbing cold. (I like to refer to this as bitch-ass cold.)

I know it's not Alaska and there are other places with latitudes worse than mine where it sucks even more. But that does not keep me from frequently (and with an expert amount of only child finesse) complaining to all my friends who live in the practically tropical climates of the Mid-Atlantic and deep South.

In fact, my complaints have become so standard that we have an unspoken deal. I am given unfettered complaining rights from roughly October until mid- to late-April. And then, it's their turn. I have to shut up and listen to the freakishly hot and humid stories of life in Tennessee, Georgia, Arkansas, Mississippi, and Alabama, just to name a few. I think it's a fair trade.

In addition to cold-weather bragging rights, Chicago's winter also involves learning to navigate the slip-and-slide that is virtually any flat surface within a day of snowfall. Sure, shoveling sidewalks is required by law. Does it happen? Riiiight.

Twelve hours after flakes fall, unshoveled sidewalks start to get slick. Twelve more and shoveling is almost impossible after all the trampling. Twenty-four more and you may as well strap skates to the soles of your shoes to try to make it to the bus stop without a concussion.

This makes for particularly dangerous walking when you're someone like me, who might be charitably described as gracefully challenged. (I have on more than one occasion been called a walking bruise. Also, a gazelle. By, um, my mother. Seriously, there was the Ass-Over-Elbows Escalator Fall of 2006 that almost required an ambulance; the Gushing Mountain Bike Injury the summer before that really should have involved stitches. There's a list.)


Anyway, this is a long-winded complaint that leads to this:



That's my knee cap after a rather stunning fall this morning on the bus. Ice-caked shoes and a snow-soaked floor are not a good combo and I bit it. Hard. Making matters worse, the bus had barely started to pull away from my stop. I really should have just gotten off at the next stop and hobbled the hell home to mope in the comfort of my bed.

But noooooo.

Fast forward 45 minute to me, grateful to have shaved in the last millennium, sitting at my desk with with my jeans and long-johns rolled up while icing my bare leg. Classy.

Is it spring yet?

Sexy pants.

I broke out the long johns today for the first time this season. This is depressing for a number of reasons, mainly because I like to try to see how long I can go before I need a base layer. It's like some weird sadistic game I play.

But, we're supposed to get a snow storm this afternoon and even thought it's a balmy 30-something degrees, tonight's temperature is expected to be around 15. (Talk about getting heat on time!)

Since I've got a bunch of stuff to do after work, I won't be headed home until 9-ish. And I'll be walking the 20 minutes from my final destination be on a long walk through the snow.

So alas, I only made it to Dec. 3.

Le sigh.

Let there be warmth!

Many moons ago (also known as several days before Halloween), I discovered that my heat did not work in my bedroom. I fought with the gas company, which lead to me later pen this lovely missive just to blow off steam.

But today, by the skin of my Noodley teeth, I got heat again.

Barely.

I was given a four hour window for the gas company guy (who, turned out to be a woman. Bad Noodles for having gender stereotypes) came with 20 minutes left to spare. She was super nice and was about to turn the gas on when she stopped, wrench in hand, and said: "Wait. Does this supply a furnace in your bedroom?"

"Um. Yes."

"I can't turn this on. It's against code to have a furnace in your bedroom or bathroom."

Keep in mind now that this furnace has been in a bedroom for at least six years under various owners. I swear to you, without hyperbole (which, um, I may or may not have a slight fondness for), I nearly cried. Right there. On the spot. In the dusty basement.

Apparently, my watery eyes and helpless girl charm (which I bust out only when necessary) and the fact that I argued that my bedroom was really part of a studio, she turned it on. And then, she went all grandma on me, which made me want to bounce in her arms and give her a big old kiss. (The Mutt, however, sensing how awkward that'd be for me took the initiative to do it herself. What a team player.) She lit the pilot light and even gave me some quick home improvement advice.

Talk about a fairy godmother. So tonight, while sitting in my toasty warm bedroom, I raise a glass of hot cocoa to the wonder woman at the gas company. Way to be bad ass.

One chilly opus from one angry girl.

Dear (Redacted name of utility company),

You suck.

I'm not normally one for public rants, tirades and other hysterics. But because of the hell you've put me through for the past four weeks, I'm willing to make an exception. Plus, I'm really, really cold.

Why?

Because it's Chicago. In November. It snowed yesterday. And my bedroom has no heat.

According to your various customer service representatives (So far, I believe I've spoken to at least eight of them. Lovely people, really. Especially the one who told me I should just lie. But more on that later.) this doesn't qualify as a gas emergency since I have gas to cook, just not to heat half of my living space. So I have to keep calling to try to get someone to fix the problem. They may not be able to come for another month. That's right. A month. Are you beginning to understand the source of my rage?

But let me back up, since it seems like you guys need help understanding the problem.

I became a homeowner last year. My lovely (but breadbox-sized) space used to be two even SMALLER apartments with two different apartment numbers that were converted years ago into one slightly larger condo unit. But no one seemed to have told you that. Or you just didn't care. But for whatever reason, there are two separate gas lines and two separate gas meters that feed my unit, one of which is labeled as feeding my condo and the other which goes an apartment that actually no longer exists.

So when I moved in, I gave you my address and apartment number, and you set me up. And I paid my bill. On time. In full. Every month. And we were pals.

You can imagine my surprise when I went to turn my heat this fall and only get cold air. I call my HVAC company, and re-upped a $500 annual service contract for my two furnaces. The nice technician came out to inspect the damage and discovers that the gas meter that feeds the no-longer-in-existence-apartment-that's-really-just-my-bedroom has some kind of lock on it. Looks like you turned it off. But no one told me, since the account I use and pay for and unbeknownst to me just supplies gas to my livingroom and kitchen is just peachy.

However, it turns out that getting the gas turned back on is apparently a really big, damn problem. Each time I call, someone tells me something different. The emergency number said I'm not an emergency. The customer service line told me to call the emergency line, which referred me back to them. Then the customer service line told me to just lie and say that I don't have any gas, to ensure a visit that day by a technician. I've got problems with fibbing, especially when I find out that if it's not a true emergency and someone is dispatched, I get charged a hefty fee for every half hour someone is on my property. I'm just a single girl who writes for a living. I'm not so much with the cash, so this doesn't work. Oh yeah, and then there was the time when I called and I got stuck on some kind of hold only to get transferred to an attendant at 7:01 p.m. Unfortunately, your customer service line closed at 7. D'oh.

I talk calmly. I yell. I cry. Nothing works. So I do what every feminist bone in my body rejects and turn the problem over to the boy. He works his magic and I'm told that I have to apply to open a separate account and they'll send me the application in the mail. That would have been great if the envelope you sent me actually included an application and not just a cover letter telling me to fax it back to you.

So I called again today and talked to someone else who assured me there's no way I or any of my neighbors could pay our heating bills because the balance is so low each month and that it must be paid by the condo association. Wrong again. She also explains it's impossible for there to be two gas lines going to one condo unit and that I can't have to different gas accounts _ even if I want them. But she offers to make an appointment for one of their technicans to come look at the situation. On Dec. 17.

The tears start welling.

But if there's anything I've learned in this, it's that you've got no consistency. So I try one more time. And apparently, this time I've got some kind of good karma. Or, I just beat the system by pressing "2" to set up a new account where I reach a nice, helpful, speaks-in-complete-sentences girl who tells me that if I just write a cover letter explaining this situation and fax it along with my driver's license and copy of a closing document that shows when I took ownership, I'll be able to get the ball rolling.

Of course, then it will take at least three days for them to review it before they can schedule someone to come over and turn it on. And that wait might be a week. That means we're at least a week and a half way from heat. But it's a hell of a lot closer than Dec. 17.

Since I'm not a troll, I told this wonderful lady how great and helpful she was compared to her less-than-desirable co-workers. But that doesn't erase the fact that you still suck. And my toes are getting kind of numb.

Love,
Noodles.

The joys of home ownership.

Halloween isn't officially here yet, but we Chicagoans have already busted out our gloves, scarves and in some cases hats.

Now, given my whole addiction to coats (and my belief that my fall wardrobe is by far my best) I'm usually down with this lovely season change. Even if you can't help but avoid that horrible feeling in the pit of your stomach that's a reminder that the total, unadulterated shittness that is Chicago winter is just around the corner.

But my autumnal funfest ground to an unhappy and unexpected halt on Tuesday when I broke my never-enforced rule of not turning heat on before November.

I came home from work after a particularly long and arduous day wanting nothing more than to pile on jammies, blast the heat, down a Benadryl, curl up under the covers and sleep away the previous 24 hours. My plan worked splendidly until I tried to turn on the furnace that heats my bedroom. (My octogenarian condo unit has two gas furnaces.) There was all kinds of air blowing. The issue was that none of it was hot. Or warm. Or tepid. In fact, it was down right cold. I let it run for an hour before I figured out I was just making myself colder and colder and threw in the towel (blanket?) and went to bed.

The lovely (and painfully expensive) HVAC man is coming tomorrow morning. Good thing I got paid today.

Brrr! It's cold in here....

It's felt like fall for all of 24 hours and I'm already moving on to winter. A transition that was aided and abetted by the arrival of the most recent Athleta catalog, which showed up in my mailbox this afternoon.

I'm nosing around for some new boots, because mine are impossible to walk in, much less safely pilot a vehicle. (Note to North Face designers: Please think about these things before you have me spend $150 on a pair of spaceman-looking boots. I'll be sure to do the same.)


But I've also come to the realization that while my trusty winter coat may be warm, it's also ugly as, well, you know ... and sort of reminiscent of a 1920s duster coat that should be worn by a member of the AARP. In Chicago, you don't screw with winter and when it's 30 below, we all pretty much throw fashion out the window and wear so many layers, it's hard to distinguish the homeless from the not. (Offensive? C'est la vie. That's how we roll in the city of big shoulders.) Still, that doesn't stop me from wanting to upgrade. So when I saw this, I confess to getting a little giddy:

But with a $238 price tag, I'm not sure I'm willing to pony up my MasterCard number just yet.

What say you, peeps? Thoughts? Suggestions? An offer for a nice beach vacation sometime in February?