MA! The meatloaf!

Liz: WHY does Elliott's breath smell so bad?!
Me: Because he eats cat food.

...Elliott is the name of the kitten. His full name is actually T.S.Elliott Smith from E.T. Just to clarify, he is not just some person we know who has an affinity for cat food. Not only is he a cat, he is a Cat. He genuinely does cat things, like meow and play with catnip mice and chase strings. Who knew?

Today I chose the exactly perfect hour to hop on the T with the 500 Red Sox fans headed to Fenway for the first game in the double header this afternoon. Anyone who complains about New England people being unfriendly or whatnot should ride with them on an overstuffed T headed to Fenway. Seriously. They're completely unphased by the fact that they are pressed so tightly together that STDs could potentially become an issue. They even converse and joke about how well they've gotten to know each other in mere minutes. It's actually kind of nice, if you can ignore the whole ass to ass part.

Natalie just informed me that one scoop of vanilla ice cream from Coldstone, sans any mix ins, is worth 26 Weight Watchers points, which is 6 points over a day's worth of points. Then she threw the cat on Liz.

I also hung out on the Star Floor with Jen and her fellow Stars, played Cranium and watched the Desperate Housewives pilot until we had to go to the EIV meeting, where I was sufficiently overwhelmed with information.

Then I went to take the train home and bumped into Nick Tully.

Soybean paste makes for an excellent conversation piece. Mmmm brown, slimey, gooey, paste. In a jar. A huge jar.

I swallowed a bug.

Mon dieu.

So a couple of days ago, I was thinking to myself, "Hey, wouldn't it be cool if I witnessed a restaurant marriage proposal?" I don't know why, I guess it's just one of those things that people talk about that I have never seen. Like The Breakfast Club, or the naked cowboy in Times Square. ANYWAY. Last night I went to an extremely quiet restaurant with my family and the French grandparents, and lo and behold, at the end of dinner, a teary-eyed man plucks the rose out of the vase on the table and starts soulfully (and also mediocrely) crooning an original ballad to his girlfriend, now fiancee, while the twelve other people in the room looked on. It was definitely a grand romantic gesture...that went on for about six minutes. Verse after verse after verse, tears streaming, feet stomping to the beat, shaking the floors and water glasses. Truly a memorable evening for us all.

And so, I am now back on The Riverway, bonding with an attention starved kitten who likes to chew wires and bite my fingers as I type. Cat fur. Everywhere. I've never met such a demanding cat. Maybe that's because this cat thinks it's a dog. Or a person that likes to drink out of the toilet.

Maybe I'll get some work done while I'm all alone here.

Maybe not.

I had a dream there were clouds in my Coldstone.

It is so comforting to know that no matter what, Coldstone is always in my line of vision.

I love living in a square topiary.

I also love befriending maintenance men and Comcast tech support employees.

I also love walking around and acting like I know what's going on, swiping my T pass, staring inconspicuously at well dressed strangers through my sunglasses, walking with purpose, and generally channeling Holly Golightly every chance I get.

This is it.

Doesn't Phoebe have a song about pigeons?

Didn't drive to Boston today because my driver's side rear tire was "flat as a doornail" according to my mother's frenzied simile, and has been that way for Lord knows how long.

So Mumsy and I trekked into Boston in her monstrous, unparkable vehicle, didn't get lost, hit a pigeon somewhere in Concord and just now realized that the poor bird's carcass is still wedged in grille.

I'm really just at a loss here, a horrifying mix of pity and revulsion and sick amusement (not at the death of the bird, but at how abysmally this situation is being dealt with).

For Pete's sake.

Hello, Powerbook.

I don't have the faintest idea as to what's going on with this computer of mine. All I know is that it's really good looking and the keys are tiny and finger mousepads take some getting used to. Also, I was so looking foward to doing the iMovie tutorial project, Maddie Gets A Bath, but apparantly that doesn't happen anymore.

Oh, MADDIE.

Anyway. I'm not in Boston right now on account of bad timing and a dihty apahtment. But it's really fine because I received my Cobbletones CD in the mail. For those of you who do not know who the Cobbletones are, just ask me because I totally know them personally... a little... not at all, but I've made eye contact.

Mingled with Kristina this evening, did some errands, watched some Friends, ate some Chinese, and, you know, had a marvelous time. Summer is definitely over though, which is a bit sad, and also weird at the same time. Tsk. New seasons, new beginnings...how Dawson's Creek is that? Speaking of, Abby died this morning. That is my favorite episode.

I assmebled a really nice frame collage featuring camping pictures. I forgot how much fun that was. You know I used to not even like camping, but I went anyway, just to test it out for sure, and I'm glad that I did because I would have been hella pissed if I missed out on that memory. 

I can say hella now because I use a Mac. Far out.

Why is the gingerbread man made of mud?

Today I went to see The Brothers Grimm (Uhh...what?) for $4.75, which was better than The Village but worse than Catwoman. Still, $4.75. I could probably feed a lot of Indians for that price. Poor Matt Damon. It's always sad when such attractive, overly talented, Bostonian Oscar winners make abysmal role choices.

I have an eensy weensy moral problem involving the replacement of my desktop computer with a more mobile laptop. We'll see.

P.S. The RENT theatrical release has been bumped back to the week AFTER HPatGoF, and is now opening Thanksgiving weekend. Natale, if you're out there, come back for a genuine New England Thanksgiving, so that we can go and experience this movie together. You know, the way the Pilgrims would have wanted it.

God, I love The O.C. on DVD. No commercials AND a hilarious gag reel! Joy!

Speaking of gag reels, I now have, in my posession, One Screw Loose: The Anna Anderson Story, circa 2002 World Studies History. Yes, that's right. I will screen it for whoever wants to watch. It's fantastic.

So, I guess I should start packing...you know, for the empty apartment I'm about to move into. The one that DOESN'T provide furniture. Riiight. Starting tomorrow. Most importantly, I need to invest in more pairs of work appropriate denim AND prepare myself for working the right brain, hardcore, because friends, that is what Emerson is all about.

I swear I'm not lame.

I'm a little short of breath and my lungs hurt and my throat is shot and I keep coughing, TB style. Why? Don't know.

Diagnose me.

But if it ends up being anything remotely fatal, I'd prefer it if you just lie to me, because I tend to prefer the illusion of health as opposed to the gutwrenchingly harsh realities that I involuntarily shove to the back of my mind every single day.

I'd rather ignore the random inexplicable abnormalities than point them out to the someone and risk further, potentially frightening examination.

Hypothetical situations have always been my forte, along with empty wishing and imaginary scenarios where everything and everyone that I love last forever. Perfectly. AKA, exactly the way I like them.

One thing that provides me with just enough of a glimmer of hope is the notion that this time I just may be exactly where I'm supposed to be. 

There's always a reason not to throw away things you think you could someday need again. Sometimes it's best to just be frugal and ask yourself if, one day, you'll wish you'd kept it.

I really ought to stop more often and just work on being more appreciative of the things that I have, while I have them.

Instead of looking back, I'm just going to wonder about next year. What will have happened, who will I know, and where will I be?