Frozen, When Liquids Turn Into Solids, and the Sans Draw a Blank

Apparently while I spent my Sunday afternoon being a NYC single gal cliche–packing up the last of my belongings at the ex-boyfriend’s apartment–a mom friend had to rush her two-year-old daughter to the emergency room to stitch up a gash on her forehead. Desperate to keep her daughter still, she sang the Let It Go song from Frozen while an attractive plastic surgeon worked his craft. 

Frozen. Isn’t that the demarcation of the Great Divide, the haves and the have-nots? It’s a reference point the entire population of haves know, and one the have-nots do not (unless unlike me, you’re an excellent auntie and spend ample time with nephews and nieces.) The world bursts into song and when they catch my blank stare, they all say, “It’s the theme song from Frozen.”

The only thing I can think of is whether I need to get my eggs frozen. 



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