When I was 5, I sat in the back of a car holding a gallon of milk filled with pennies, while my drunk father drove us to 7/11  to get beer. As I watched the police take him away, I knew I would never feel safe again. In 6th grade,

Okay, actually, I mean my daddy issues.  And I don’t mean all of that psychological hoo-ha about abandonment and male authority figures or whatever.  I’m talking about having the hots for guys in khakis and Hawaiian shirts.  As soon as I see a strapping twentysomething in the same outfit that

 Here in New York, temperatures have dropped from unbearably hot to only slightly sweltering.  Unexpected rainy days make me yell curses when I accidentally step in puddles that fill my jelly sandals with water.  Obnoxious kids in school uniforms have suddenly appeared on the train that I take to work,