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I saw my first beaver last week. I was walking over a small bridge into town, and there it was, hanging out in the river. I guess this is one of the small differences between New York City and Montana - more diverse rodent sightings.

It was HUGE. Nothing that I had learned about beavers when I was growing up ever led me to believe that when I was 27 I would be faced with a four-foot long, 60-pound, very, very serious looking beaver. In fact, popular images of the beaver (see right) led me to believe that beavers were maybe a foot tall, extremely goofy, and possibly high on drugs.

The beaver that I saw meant serious business. In fact, when I first spotted it, I assumed it was a baby black bear before his tail came out of the water. It did not have buggy crossed eyes. It was not up to any antics. It was not cheering on a local sports team. It was in Nature, Surviving Majestically.

After I did some reading on beavers when I got home (I suggest typing in “North American Beaver” instead of “Enormous Wet Beaver”) and found that they are, indeed, serious, hardworking animals and not silly at all. They are the second largest rodent in the world. They can change the flow of entire rivers (in fact, the second largest beaver dam is located in Montana and at 2,140 feet long and 14 feet high, it can be seen by freaking satellite). They carry entire logs in their teeth and then pack mud and rocks into the crevices with their forepaws. They defend their dams and lodges with vigor. (Down below is a REAL beaver, much like the one I saw. Although this one may or may not be dead.)

So what’s with all of the lame beaver press that paints them as small and wacky instead of smart and majestic and maybe a little intimidating? Is it kind of like artificially fruit-flavored candy that doesn’t taste like the real fruit but is weirdly consistent in taste with other artificially fruit-flavored candy? Is the beaver the blue raspberry of the animal kingdom? Was I the only person on earth who didn’t know the truth about beavers?

I feel like running some sort of public awareness campaign for them that reveals their true size and disposition: Hardworking. Dedicated. Enormous. Sober.

I’ll admit it: for me, the Gap exists for one reason and one reason only: each time I am required to wear a sunny, bright, and wholly uninteresting dress to a wedding, I run in on Saturday morning, buy the first sunny, bright, wholly uninteresting dress I see, wear it to the wedding, and then return it on Sunday.

I’m not sure how evil this might be on the evil-o-meter, but it makes the most sense to me - I don’t wear sunny, bright, uninteresting dresses on any other occasion and it doesn’t make sense to drop $70 each on a collection of dresses that I’ll only wear once or twice. Plus, don’t they use child labor or something?

In any case, this morning I was at the Gap buying a dress for a wedding along with a delicate and wholly uninteresting cardigan since it’s somewhat cold today. I walked in, hastily tried it on over my pants (I’m nothing but class, if you haven’t noticed) and walked my outfit over to the cashier. Usually, they don’t say anything, but this girl - she saw right through me.

“Last minute wedding outfit. Good choice. Conservative but spring-y. Nice cardigan match. This dress was also popular the day before Easter.”

It was so refreshing. I was stunned. I decided to be refreshing back.

“Yeah, now I just have to make sure to drink $120 worth of drinks at the open bar to make up for it.”

And she took it a step further!

“I recommend martinis. They’re expensive and even if you spill, you can still return the dress without anyone noticing the stains.”

I don’t know how this girl has possibly held down her job at the Gap, but I’ve never been happier about a purchase. I pray that she is also working tomorrow when I return the dress so that I can ask her if I’m fat and get a straight answer.

In fact, it made me envision a world where the customer service everywhere was just as honest - like if for once I was in a restaurant and when I asked what was good there, the waitress didn’t say, ” I think everything’s good here!”

And maybe the new Gap commercial could just come out and say it: “At the Gap, you can fill all of your one-event needs for conservative but youthful attire. Looking to buy some khakis just for the weekend because you’re meeting your boyfriend’s republican parents for the first time? Need a dress for a wedding that won’t upstage the bride and that hides your tattoo? Need the perfect business casual linen button-down for your much-dreaded company picnic? Come on down! It’s like rummaging through the closet of someone just like you, except without the offensive personality!”

It’s official: Ben is the new (and first ever) mixed martial arts columnist for Sports Illustrated. His first column published today. I can’t tell you how proud I am or how quickly I will spend his paycheck. From here on out, it should publish every Thursday until he is inevitably fired.

You can read it here.

Even if you’re not an MMA fan, please click the link to give his stats a nudge.

Today was also his first day working fulltime for another MMA website, CagePotato, which is a bit more casual, to say the least. On that site, he posts four times a day, although he only has a byline for his longer opinion pieces.

Me: Hi, my name is Sarah Aswell, and I’m trying to reach [generic lawyer name]. He contacted me this week about writing web content for his firm.
Assistant: Is he expecting your call, Barah?
Me: It’s actually Sarah. With an S. Yes, he told me to call at one.
Assistant: I don’t see your name in the appointment book.
Me: That’s strange, since he emailed me the meeting time yesterday and said he would put it in his Outlook calendar.
Assistant: Let me check with him. Hold on.

I hold. She returns.

Assistant: Hi, Barah?
Me: Hi. My name’s Sarah. Not Barah. I don’t really think Barah is even a name. I’m guessing that this ongoing issue might be why you can’t find my name in your appointment book.
Assistant: He’s in the middle of something. Can he call you back?
Me: Sure.
Assistant: Can I have your number, Barah?
Me: Are you serious?

…and then I gave her my number as slowly and clearly as I could, as if I were talking to an old person from the 1800s holding one of those huge gramophone horn hearing aids. I am sure this law firm will never call me back, although if a person named Barah actually exists on the planet (which I doubt) I wouldn’t be surprised if she got a call from the dumbest secretary that there has ever been.

I remember the first day I went into Manhattan. Ben and I emerged from Penn Station and were immediately overwhelmed by the crowded, churning beehive of activity that is midtown. It was rush hour and about a million worker drones were rushing back to New Jersey just as we emerged - two country bumpkins with no idea how to walk in a crowd of people.

Since then, I’ve learned well the rules of walking the streets and can navigate even the meanest lengths of sidewalk without bumping into a single businessman or stepping on a single tourist toe.

Tips:

Know your slow walkers. First and foremost, you have to target the slow and weak walkers so that you can “switch lanes” early and pass them without having to slow down - and slowing down is never a good idea. Slow walkers range from the obvious (old people or women with strollers) to the less obvious (hipsters texting while walking, loose women wearing uncomfortable stilettos, people talking to imaginary entities).

Watch for obstacles. There are all sorts of things to trip on - and I’m not just talking about cracks in the sidewalk. I’m talking about crack addicts on the sidewalk.

Know your unpredictable walkers. Unpredictable walkers are much worse and more dangerous than slow walkers because slow walkers proceed in a straight line, whereas you never know what an unpredictable walker will do next. Beware the gaggle of high school girls. Beware the tourist who will stop without warning in the middle of the sidewalk to take a picture of a building. And always beware the toddler, who, as we know, is not much more than a drunk.

Understand that businessmen don’t move an inch. Often in the city, you will be involved in a Showdown: the streets are crowded and there is someone walking towards you directly in your path - who will move? In most other places in the world, both of you would compromise and move a foot or so in either direction. In New York, however, you are given about ten seconds to sum up the other person’s personality and to decide whether they will move or whether you will be pushed unceremoniously into oncoming traffic. Businessmen don’t budge. Women who blowdry their hair don’t budge. Workers wearing reflective vests don’t budge. Big dogs don’t budge.

Watch for cars. In most places, cars will stop for pedestrians. This is not one of those places. In fact, I would recommend watching out for cars even when on the sidewalk. You never know.

Understand that the whole game changes when it is raining. Rain in New York means millions of people carrying around huge, sharp umbrellas. And having an umbrella open over your head seems to give people the right to not look where they are going and to ignore your personal space. Whereas a normal walk in the city would involve goals such as not running into anyone or getting really angry, a rainy day walk only has one goal: the keep your eyeballs from being poked out by the unnecessarily huge golf umbrella that that woman who obviously doesn’t play golf is carrying.

Here’s a visual for you: Ben and I, now both ill, sitting on our couch, eating Chinese takeout, watching Lake Placid on cable, and still feebly attempting to get work done on our laptops before the day ends.

With the small exception of the takeout, life is bad. Real bad.

And, unfortunately for him, Ben has to drive to a generic New Jersey hotel conference room tomorrow to tape a grueling 12 hours of fighter interviews. I plan on hanging out in my sweatpants all day and eating his leftover General Tso’s chicken in his absence, but only out of love.

(Oh, dude, an enormous and ancient crocodile just ate a bear in Lake Placid. It almost makes up for the poor acting.)

Being mostly sick is weird because you can still do stuff, but you don’t really have the energy to do real work or concentrate on anything too important. Add this to the fact that I discovered a bunch of old high school people on facebook - yes, facebook, the enormous and ancient crocodile of procrastination and time sucks - and you have a strange, wasted day indeed.

Since I missed my high school reunion a couple of years ago, I hadn’t really seen many people except for the small circles of close friends that I’ve kept in touch with, and catching up with many of their lives was downright weird, even more so considering my fever. A jock turned sensitive photographer? People holding down real jobs? People with babies? Everyone is fat?

The fat thing is especially weird. I mean, I’ve put on 20 pounds since graduating high school too, and I think to strangers most people are still considered normal-weighted. But the last time I saw them, they were at the height of their youth - 18, tanned, unjaded, beerbellyless. Now they look like regular people. And sometimes wear things like turtlenecks.

What I’m trying to say is, it makes you take stock of your life. I guess other people are probably shocked that I’m married. Or still wearing that same t-shirt.

Well, Lake Placid is over, after a less-than-thrilling 79 minutes. Don’t worry, they left plenty of room for a sequel. I think I’m going to take a Tylenol PM and shiver in bed for a while before the drugs kick in. Hopefully I won’t have night terrors about my misspent youth or large, digitally mediocre reptiles. And hopefully I’ll have an update worth reading tomorrow.