I had NO IDEA what cold was before I landed in NY the other day.  Yes, yes, I spent two seasons in Antarctica, but they give you all the ECW (Extreme Cold Weather) gear you could possibly need.  I mean, I've spent the night in an ice cave eating chocolate bars at 1am to stay warm, and I've checked the oil on a piece of heavy machinery while standing in an Antarctic blizzard.  I thought I knew cold.  Apparently, my memory has slipped some.  I arrived in NY with one long jacket that had some down from maybe half a duck, and some fabulous wooly fingerless gloves that I got in Paris that I spent the entire trip wishing I had the fingers for. 

NY was, of course, the same as it always is.  A giant, fabulous, energy suck of a place.  I did a bunch of business meetings then proceeded to hit the town with my pals Joanna Novins and Alisa Kwitney (Go read their books.  They rock!)  Much merriment was made.  Most revolving around food and drink, of course. 

But the fun didn't stop there.  I got searched at the airport coming back from NY.  I didn't know what it was that was happening until it was happening.  Nobody said, "We need to search your bag."  Or, "You'll have to step over there and submit to security."  There was some cryptic pointing and shrugging and some eyebrow arching and then suddenly some 'airport security' guy was elbow-deep in maxi pads and comic books looking for WWIII in my suitcase.

Having recovered from that, I got on the plane and slid into my seat in the emergency exit row which I'd requested because I'd just read another article on DEEP VEIN THROMBOSIS...

I know that I've used DEEP VEIN THROMBOSIS in one of my books.  I *think* it was Adventures of an Ice Princess, maybe when they are on the plane on the way to McMurdo Station.  I wouldn't say that I'm obsessed with the concept, or anything.  It just...tickles me.

'Why, hello...yes, it's been ages.  Absolute *ages* since we last spoke.  Terribly sorry.  I went a round with deep vein thrombosis, you see.  Put me completely out of commission.  Lopped 'em both off right at the knee.  A nuisance, really.'

But I digress.  So I'm in my seat.  In the emergency exit row.  And the flight attendant approaches to give her "In the event of an emergency" speech in which she explains how we take the red thingy and move it over thusly and down and then something about how the person closest to the door mans the door and the person in the middle stands there looking authoritative and the person on the aisle goes to the back to assist...to assist...someone else doing something else (on this particular flight there seemed to be more emergency instructions than usual)...and then she pauses dramatically and looks at me.  And then she says...

"You have to be 15 to sit in the emergency exit row.  How old are you?"

Granted I was wearing blue fingernail polish and gold Converse sneakers and cargo pants (a typical look of mine that doesn't seem to cause mass confusion on a normal basis) and the lighting in the plane wasn't worth crap, but could she possibly be serious?  Don't flight attendants need to take eye vision tests, or is that just the pilots?  (I later made the mistake of asking my boyfriend if I could possibly pass for 15 and he looked at me like I was insane.  So I don't know what all happened on that plane, but whatever.)

I spent the next five or so hours crammed in a middle seat in the emergency exit row contemplating the meaning of life and if age really *is* just a number which might have been a really meditative, spiritual sort of thinking experience were it not for the man on my left watching The Ballad of Ricky Bobby: Talladega Nights on his DVD gizmo loud enough for ground control to hear. 

I'm happy to say that I made it back to L.A., fully defrosted.   And the next morning as I headed out to grab my usual Venti-Nonfat-XtraHot-Cappuccino I passed some chick walking her dog.  She was wearing huge shearling boots and an enormous down jacket (at least three ducks).  And I thought to myself, "You have NO idea what cold is."