I'll stick to ice cubes

Last week I dragged my half-dead self to the local figure skating club carnival spectacle thing.

Despite my initial dread of leaving my cozy apartment (and more importantly, my pjs, Neo Citran and ten boxes of kleenex) to stand in a crummy arena watching little girls skate around to Lady GaGa, I actually wound up feeling kind of charmed.

I'm not sure if it was just the tiny tots dressed as wizard of oz characters and holding onto one another for dear life while taking turns falling all over the ice, or the fact that someone bothered to make giant Oscar cutouts and paint a strip of red carpet on the ice, but I'll admit, they got me. My resolve to feel cranky and maintain constant eye-rolling at the shmaltziness of it all failed me briefly.

For a minute, I wanted to be the girl in the red fringe costume, freezing my ass off and breathlessly waiting for my cue to glide and shimmer around the rink.

Of course, a minute later some 13-year-old skated to "Barbie Girl" and I just wanted to go back to bed.