Sometimes I think I'd like to live in a big city like Boston or Chicago, but this is always the time of year I know that's probably never going to happen. The only way I'd make it through winter in Boston is if I had a blanket made of Irish Catholic men I could take everywhere I went. I'm a wuss, and I know it, but it's more than just that I don't like cold weather. Bitter cold--much like tequila--makes me mean. At my last job, I got into a little tiff with the guy who was in charge of the thermostat in our building and refused to let the heat get above 68 or even to understand why we would want it any warmer. At one point, I glared at him and willed laser beams to shoot out of my eyeballs, reducing him to a smoldering pile that I could use to warm my hands and feet.