Winter.

Of all the winters I have lived through, I can truthfully say I have only really enjoyed one. I was living in Hawai'i where it never got below 75 degrees, my favorite rooftop bar was featuring half off holiday mojitos, and even Santa wore board shorts. What could be more perfect? Well, believe it or not there are people (strange, senseless, irrational people) who would disagree. These people wait all year to zip up their Carhartt's, gas up their snowmobiles, and hit the trails aided only by their courage and a thermos full of Schnapp's laced hot chocolate. Yes, these people actually exist, and they all live in my home town.

Each year, on the morning of the first snow fall, all the families of the small midwestern town I call home pull their snowmobiles infront of St. Mary's Catholic Church to watch old Father McKenna sprinkle each sparkling Ski-doo with holy water. With gloved hands clasped in prayer and tears in their goggled covered eyes these families not only welcome winter, they celebrate it. I am not from one of those families. My earliest memory of winter is not of snowmen and sleighrides, it's of my dad, wrapped in his bathrobe, running up and down our stairs in an attempt to keep warm while simultaneously cursing God and the furnace repair man.

When I was six years old my mother told me the story of the little girl who decided to lick the ice crystals off the flag pole at school. Her tongue stuck to the metal and she never. talked. again. For the next 4 years I refused to even put ice cubes in my KoolAide. And while my fear of going through life as a mute kept me indoors drinking ice-less beverages during the winter months the rest of my town bravely headed down to the lake to engage in the only winter activity more popular than drunken snowmobiling: ice fishing. Diesl trucks pull ice shanties bigger than my first apartment onto the frozen water so that Carhartt wearing fishermen can sit around a hole, and wait. One winter my dad's friends actually convinced him to take part in this ludicrous activity. Not bothering with a shanty they hauled my brother's row boat down to the lake shore taking with them their fishing poles, a pick axe, and a bottle of scotch. My dad returned four hours later red nosed and fishless to find my mother waiting for him, with our new priest, who she had invited for dinner that night. All I can say is that it's a good thing we're Catholic.

For me winter means getting up early (something I try to avoid at all costs even if it means sleeping in my clothes and stacking nutrigrain bars in my glove compartment) to start my car and scrape the windshield. And, if you are, like me, one of the garage-less there is no way to get around this heinous task. Believe me, I have tried. In college my dread-headed next door neighbor convinced me that you could save at least 5 minutes by skipping the scraping and just throwing hot water on your windshield, so I did. Luckily, I managed to avoid ever cracking the glass. I also managed to successfully freeze myself into my car after using the hot water method to open an ice covered door and then driving the 15 minutes to class in subzero temps.

Perhaps the only redeeming quality about the winter season (besides going on vacation somewhere tropical) is the added exercise. I know what you're thinking, "Exercise? Who would want to head outside in the cold for additional exercise?" Clearly you're not taking into account what attempting to push a car up a steep and ice covered driveway does to your heart rate. How hauling old towels, straw, sawdust, birdseed and hamster bedding (just a few of the many items I've used) outside in an attempt to give your wheels some traction can really build your muscles. And finally the extra calories burned when after a month of pushing, and pulling, and salting you give up and just park your car on the street, where your mailbox used to be before the snow plow came by, and walk.

So here's to winter: To getting rear ended before you've even left the parking lot. To ackward conversations over Aunt Mindy's meatballs at forced family gatherings. To black ice bruises and frost bitten fingers. To seasonal depression and bottles of scotch. To ice covered windshields, straw covered driveways, and the little girl who licked the flag pole. And to everyone who must endure her wrath, the best of luck.

"No Big Size," - Shopping in South Korea

The tree is up and the lights are twinkling, yes, the holiday season is officially here. My favorite time of the year when a diet of sugar cookies and pumpkin pie, and a wardrobe of slippers and sweat shirts, are not only accepted but encouraged, and the only running I'll be doing is towards a sign that says, "SALE." With our new Holiday Show finally through previews and fully open, and my work with next season's script writers finished I decided it was time to brave the cold and the crowds and take a trip into Seoul to do some much needed shopping. I needed to buy a gift for my boyfriend, as well as my at work Secret Santa, and much more importantly find a new holiday dress for the UNICEF concert I'm performing in this weekend. The other 10 dresses I have just weren't going to cut it (I think any woman who has ever had a special event or a hot new coworker knows what I mean).

Seoul is a shopper's paradise: subway stations, malls, markets, and virtually every street corner north and south of the Han river are filled with sweaters, skirts, leggings, and some of the cutest ballet flats I've ever seen all at ridiculously low prices....and in ridiculously small sizes. I spent my college years a size 16, played in an intramural beer pong league, and considered Old Navy's Plus Size section proof that Jesus loved me. And while 8 show weeks, and my inability to complete 9am dance workshops with a hangover, have helped me lose the beer and 40 pounds my size 9 frame is still too large for Korean clothing. A fact I am reminded with again and again as each trip into a Korean clothing store begins with me pulling a cute dress of the rack and ends with a pint sized sales woman pulling it out of my hands, looking me up and down, and saying, "No big size," while pointing me towards the door.

I know what you're thinking, "Too fat for clothes? Don't worry, girl! Pull on your stretch pants and head to Payless." If only it were that easy. In Seoul, the only thing scarcer than a double digit skirt is a double digit shoe size. Were this the case somewhere else, somewhere where say, moderately expensive shoes are found only in moderately popular shoe stores, this would be unfortunate. In Korea, where a pair of glittering sandals and some fresh mandu will cost you less than $15 bucks and can be found on each and every street corner, it's downright painful. I have tried to convince myself that this is a blessing in disguise. If the shoes fit I would spend all my extra cash on them and then have to pay to ship them home. That worked for about 15 minutes. Water, water everywhere....

So after a Toffee Nut Latte and a quick glance through the "99% real" Louis Vuitton wallets on display by a street vendor I wandered into the first of a block of massive department stores determined to find a dress for my upcoming concert. Miniature clothing be damned there are women in Korea who weigh more than 100 pounds, and though they are elusive creatures, I have seen them..fully clothed..and that gave me hope.

To begin my search I chose a small, boutique-like store on the 3rd floor. I entered carefully, keeping my head down, trying to avoid any eye contact that would cause a saleswoman to offer to help, and then help me right out of the store. Like a navy seal sneaking through the water and onto an enemy beach, I slowly made my first lap around the perimeter determined not to draw attention to myself: no stopping, and definitely no touching the clothes. Cocktail dresses and perfectly ornamented cardigans called to me, oversized knits and colorful blazers beckoned me, their buttons shining in the flourescent light. I thrust my hands deeper into my jacket pockets, and squeezed them into fists until my knuckles turned white and my fingernails made crescent shaped imprints in my palms. I kept moving knowing that even one pause, one hiccup, and I would lose my resolve.

I was nearly three quarters of the way around when I saw it. Hanging between a slim pair of black winter wool shorts and a saffron yellow pea coat was the dress, not a dress, the dress. The black strapless bodice was made of tight vertical pleats which banded just below the bust line in a gloriously tummy-friendly empire waist, while the skirt had amazing diagonal shuttering. And while I'm not usually a fan of sequins (nothing says "showgirl" like sequins) these perfectly placed sparkles said, "holiday party," not, "pole dance." My feet stopped walking, my fists uncurled, my act was over.

There were 3 sizes of the dress hanging and after eyeballing the biggest one I reached for it to look at the tag and determine if I should hope, or give up now. Just as I reached inside the neckline and my fingers curled around the tag, there she was: my pint sized nightmare. In one swift movement she had the dress in her arms, the tag out, and was giving me that all too familiar look I knew could only end in pain and disappointment. "Try on," I asked hopefully, gesturing towards the fitting rooms at the back of the store, "Ok?" She lowered her gaze to my feet and I knew what was coming. As her eyes slowly made her way from my boots to my leggings I made a last ditch attempt at victory. Dropping my purse to the floor I quickly whipped off my jacket, thanking God that I had worn a form fitting top instead of a bulky sweater. "Look!" my mind screamed, "Look! Look how much slimmer I am without my jacket!"

I don't know if it was the look of desperation in my eyes or my tummy control underwear but somehow I had done it. With a nod and a quick, "Ok," she turned and started towards the dressing rooms. I stood there in shock. It had happened, I had finally passed the Korean-saleswoman-eyeball-test-of-shame, I was worthy. And that's when it hit me. If I was going to let this saleswoman decide my worth, I had much bigger problems than fitting into a cocktail dress. I can bench press 60 pounds and hit a high C. I can do my own french manicure and last Friday I successfully made Julia Child's Favorite Roast Chicken..using a toaster oven. I have a wonderful family, great friends, a boyfriend who loves me, and a cat who bites me far less than he used to. I am worthy, and I don't need a pint sized Korean saleswoman to tell me that.

I'd like to say that I swelled up with self pride, told the saleswoman exactly where she could stick that dress, and left the store, but that would be lying. I picked up my stuff and followed her to the dressing room, and while she waited outside the door, tapping her child sized foot, I took my sweet time trying it on, and it fit.