You Can Take the Girl Out of New York, But...

Painkillers must be addictive because they make your whole body relax into this glorious, imperturbable languor. Unfortunately, they also seem to make your mind loosen up enough so that, if taken before bed, they cause you to dream about your worst fear, the one you're desperately squelching.

Last night, after a losing battle with a sinus headache, I took some Aleve and dreamed that my boyfriend made us move to Jones City, a mythical, antiurban no man's land, where our driveway backed onto a 2-lane collector road near a freeway (you can imagine what rush hour was like). I asked Jim how I was going to get to work, since there was no public transportation, and I didn't have a car. He shrugged unhelpfully and said, "ride your bike? I don't know." My first interaction with the redneck neighbors was to ask them to shut their drapes, as I could see everything but the afterglow -- a request which prompted the delightful young man who answered the door to spit at me. Later on we found ourselves hanging out with a greasy-looking woman in fuzzy pig slippers. She asked us if we wanted some "pop." At this point I ran out of the room crying, begging Jim to take me back to New York. He said no. So I ran off and married George Costanza.

Is it possible that I've become a snob?