I am hardly what you’d call a sports fan.

I’ll nod blankly as you talk stats, argue about trades and blah blah blah about your fantasy football/baseball/hockey leagues because basically, I just don’t care. There are, however, three notable exceptions to my sports apathy:

Post-season baseball
Discussions revolving around illiterate, power-house basketball players who take $18 million dollar pay-cuts to play for the Lakers
and
Sunday afternoon football

Sunday afternoons, I get to pad across the street in flip flops, jeans and an ex-boyfriend-sized t-shirt to eat some meat, have a drink and cuss at the 54″ inch screen with a handful of true, dyed-in-the-wool sports fans. I’ll never exactly be one of them, but that’s really okay. I bring balance to the event. They’ll say something about Tom Brady looking better this game, and I have to agree. They’re talking passing yards or something, and I mean his haircut. I know. I’m such a girl.

Anyway, today’s afternoon was even better than expected. Before the game even started, the Resident Sports Fanatic pulled out a wad of bills.

RSF: H, twenties, fifties or hundreds?
H: Uh…
RSF: Twenties, fifties or hundreds? C’mon, it’s an easy question.
H: Twenties. What the hell are you talking about?
RSF: I owe you money.

He then proceded to hand me a sizeable amount of cash — in twenties as requested. It took me a second, but then I remembered. Yeah, he owed me some money… for stuffing envelopes for his dad’s company one night. It was two hours worth of mindless work, paid for, I thought when he bought me dinner. I didn’t need to count the cash to see I was being way overpaid for the job. I mean, some lawyers don’t make the bank he just handed me.

H: I don’t think I earned this much.
RSF: Well, that’s how much I’m paying you.
H: Consider me done arguing.

I’d say I don’t know what to do with the cash, but that’s hardly true. For starters, a manicure, pedicure, trip to the aesthetician (read: pain-filled wax experience) might top the list.

Or I could save it.

I can’t believe I just typed that with a straight face.

Give me a kiss to build a dream on
And my imagination will thrive upon that kiss
Sweetheart, I ask no more than this
A kiss to build a dream on

I had a really great kissing dream during nap time this afternoon. I mean, really great. The kind of kissing dream based on an actual kissing experience so it’s more reality than fantasy and thus amazing and frustrating all at the same time. Woke up all flushed and dying for a cigarette*.

I need to go to bed now, and am tempted to do a little guided meditation to land myself back in the dream, but, well, I’m a bit nervous about succeeding. I mean, it’s just way too cold to go out for a smoke.

* Don’t worry, friends. I didn’t really smoke. You know, just for the record.

I have done absolutely nothing today.

Okay, well, not nothing. I did go to the grocery store to buy more tea so that I could sit around drinking hot tea and doing nothing.

There’s nothing to clean, nothing that I have to get done. I should be enjoying a day of peace, but instead I feel decadent and lazy and guilty. Oh my god… let me run to the bathroom mirror to verify that I have indeed, turned into my mother.

GAH.

Movies are made for rainy days. Or the other way around. One can never be certain.

Kitten woke me up early this morning, and by early, on a day off, I mean 6:30. I fed Her Annoyingness and went back to bed, knowing full well we’d never make it to Connecticut for the day. The weather was already miserable. When I did get up in earnest, I showered until I could feel the hot water giving, then I putzed around, picking at cold, leftover turkey. I wasn’t at all surprised when, late in the morning, my cell phone rang and it was J on the other end, looking for company while he ran errands. We do this from time to time — the errand thing. Target, the bank, Home Depot, PetCo. Mostly, because he can’t stand to be alone. Even to buy toothpaste.

In the middle of housewares where J was buying his mother a new stainless steel trashcan, I felt inspired. “I want a margarita,” I said. “Let’s go get drunk,” he suggested. And we did. Drinks and Mexican food. It’s a bit amusing the way my mind wanders when I’m around him these days. A year ago, even six months ago, he’d have been the only thought in my head. And today, though it didn’t surprise me, I found a least a dozen other things ticking by in my mind with each sip of my strawberry margarita. He stopped in the middle of the meal to tell me that I had beautiful hands. “They’re my mother’s,” I said and then thought about how I really needed to get a manicure, and how maybe I shouldn’t play so rough with Kitten – she’s leaving scars.

There seemed to be more errands on his list after lunch, but I was antsy to get home.

Like I said, movies were made for rainy days just like today. So after he’d dropped me off and I’d had my nap, I made a few calls to friends and we all scurried out in the day-after-Thanksgiving ooze to the theater. Even managed to drag Roommate, who is as much of a homebody as they come. But it turns out, the movie we saw was not made with today in mind. No. In fact, I have to rethink my statement from before. Happy movies were made for rainy days. Mystic River disturbed me. I should have lobbied harder for the midnight showing of The Princess Bride.

Now Kitten is curled up sleeping on the bed next to me, and the rain is tapping at the bedroom windows. I think I’ll go wash my face, put on some pink pajamas and have a cuddle with Kitten. I think cuddling’s what rainy nights were made for. That, and hot tea. But we’re out of tea.

The dishwasher is dish washing and Roommate has retired to the living room following the siren song of the NFL on CBS and I… I am just way too full. Full and sorry it’s over so quickly.

For me, half the joy of the day was in the baking and turkey-making, but I was sad that the dinner itself lasted but a few moments and then, it was clean up time.

And time to call the family. Mom was a bit sniffly over missing her kids (v. normal) and was pleased as could be that my turkey was such a success. But calling my father was painful beyond words when the topic turned to my mother. He is still convinced the divorce was a fluke.

Dad: She’s not happy.
H: No, Daddy, she’s not.
Dad: She’ll realize that it was a mistake.

Oh, wow. No, Dad, she won’t.

I didn’t know quite what to say, so I umm-hmmmed for a while and then said good night and Happy Thanksgiving. A bitter-sweet day, I suppose. And there is still apple pie left. Might have to go indulge in a little more of the sweet just to wrap things up nicely.

Stuffing is in the bird and the bird is in the oven happily resting from a good ten-minute jazzercize routine. Roommate thinks I have issues. I couldn’t agree more.

I did remember to thank Turk for his personal contribution to our gluttony — and to this day of thanks for family, friends, trials, journeys, love, loss and the gentle reminders that we are not yet who we can become.

Lord of all, to thee we raise, this our hymn of grateful praise.

Is it wrong that I get such joy out of making my Butterball turkey dance on the kitchen counter? I mean, you should see him (or her?) Tootsie Roll. To the left, to the left…

It’s inspiring.

Happy Thanksgiving, all.

*** update ***
pumpkin pie? done.
deviled eggs? done.
jell-o salad? done.

turkey? still dancing. how can you cook a dancing turkey??

Perhaps because I spent college living on scholarship and bookstore wages, too poor to travel home for the holidays, the idea of being without family at Thanksgiving isn’t so terrible to me. The distance from my family being what it has been (and even more so now that 7 of us are scattered among 4 states), I have always found surrogate families subbing in where mine could not be.

One year, I spent the holiday on a potato farm in Idaho learning to snow mobile; and one in upstate Maine, tucked under homemade quilts and having my first tofurkey. Two years ago, there was my boyfriend, David, and a houseful of 30-something homesick Irish who spent the evening teaching me ballads and drinking songs (followed by my very first visit to New York City). Last year on Turkey Day, J’s mother gave me a seat at the kid’s table, a very dry martini and yet another reason to be attached to a ridiculously tricky boy.

This year, though, Thanksgiving will be pretty quiet. A girlfriend, Roommate, a roasted chicken and some apple pie. There won’t be any kid’s table, after-dinner touch football, or left-over turkey sandwiches. (I really can’t justify making a big ole turkey for three people — can I?). Friday morning, we’ll pack up the car, head down to Connecticut and sit in a friend’s new cafe eating baked goods and drinking hot cocoa. With whipped cream. And maybe, if I’m very charming and my powers of persuasion are up to par, we’ll be rounding out the trip with a viewing of the Christmas tree in Rockefellar Center. And ice skating. Please let them take me ice skating. I promise to be extra graceful and not fall down lots.

My friends are such a wonderful surrogate family and I’m truthfully pretty thrilled to be the one in charge putting out the spread. I love being the hostess (I actually have a string of pearls, kitten heels and a Donna Reed-esque dress — shall I wear them?). And I love being in the kitchen when it’s all warm and the windows are steamy. And I especially love hearing my roommate say, “Woman, you’re too good!”

Because he’s absolutely right.

I have a problem. Shocker, I know.

Let me sum up:

I work in a male-dominated industry.
I am good at my job — really good at it. And my quarterly peer reviews are stellar. But despite my experience, education and track record, I get treated like a cheerleader, a daughter-figure or a ditz. (I’ve actually been told not to worry my “pretty little head” about an issue before. Gag!) I make jokes about it, and pass it off, but mostly, I hate it.

I have, on top of all my actual this-is-what-I-went-to-school-for tasks, been planning a retirement party for one of our Higher Ups. While I resent it a little bit, I do agree that I have a natural tendency for this sort of thing and am doing it without complaining (too much). So, yesterday, hands full of gift samples, invoices and event planning contracts, I walked into the Chairman’s office.

Four your edification: I was wearing a black, knee-length Ann Taylor suit, suit coat (all four buttons buttoned), filmy collared shirt and tall boots. I know you’re going to bring up the fishnets, but they were very tasteful. I swear.

Anyway, mid-way through our conversation, Chairman gets up, walks over and sticks his hand into my suit coat and fixes my shirt. In case you missed that, his HAND was IN MY CLOTHES. I was stunned and embarrassed.

Now, before you tell me to talk to HR, let me say, this company does not have an HR department. And before you tell me to raise any kind of stink at all, let me tell you that this already man single-handedly and very publicly denied me a promotion recently. And the only thing I wanted more than that promotion (I worked so hard for it, kids) was a bit of respect for the job I do.

And it took one single motion for me to be humiliated, patronized, and suddenly made to feel ten years old — completely and utterly powerless.

If I rock the boat, I’m toast. If I don’t, I’m… the tart. It’s a no-win situation. And it stinks. So, I’m going to go home, buy a turkey, take a hot bath, watch ESPN with my roommate and mend a wickedly bruised ego.

Man. I swear, I don’t ask for this stuff. It just happens.

I keep having this dream that in brief, goes as follows:

I’m on a ferry, cell phone in hand, feeling very anxious. The ferry is late. And I know that at the ferry’s destination, a man in a brown coat is waiting for me and I’m absolutely desperate to get to him. Only, I’m very afraid that we’re going to miss him and he won’t be waiting there anymore. So I’m running across the ferry, pushing my way to the front of the boat, and I hear people chiding me “It won’t get you there any faster!” I can see this man in the brown coat is standing on a shoal, his hands in his pockets. I see his mouth, too — but he’s not saying anything. I keep looking at the screen on my cell phone. I want to try to call, but I see the battery is dying and I’m worried he won’t hear me.

And then I wake up.

That’s it. I can’t wait to run across the street and tell my mystic friend, Michael, about this dream. Maybe he’ll be able to help me. In the meantime, I keep looking for brown coats — around the office, on the street. But everyone’s wearing black. Well, nearly everyone. There may be someone in navy blue here and there, but no man in the brown coat.

*** after speaking with my Mystic Michael ***

The Ferry: A ferry, or any boat, symbolizes movement from one place to another. The fact that the ferry never arrives is neither good nor bad; it simply means that I am one stressed out little girl. “I wish I could take your anxiety from you!” says Michael.

The Water: Emotion. Boat on water? Emotional progress. “You know, this brings color to your cheeks. I don’t think I’ve ever seen you so alive.”

The Coat: “I don’t think it’s necessarily the color of the coat. Tell me about what the coat is made of,” he asks. “Is it leather? Fabric?” Fabric, I told him. Like a farmer’s coat, maybe more refined. But it’s definitely a bit coarse. “That should tell you something.”

The People on the Ferry: “They’re telling you to relax. That worry will not get you there faster. You’re going to arrive.” But will the object of my travel be there? “Yes, I think it will be.”

The Cell Phone: Communication. DUH. “Yes, but the fact that you aren’t using the phone… you want to reach out and you aren’t doing it because you’re afraid it will be useless. Then the fact that you can use the phone and don’t is not ominous. It may very well work. You simply don’t try.” I am afraid of being misunderstood.

“Do you wake up feeling sad or upset?”
“No… just, nervous. Desperate. Like I should be doing something more to get there. I don’t like feeling… ineffective.”
“But running on the ferry gets you nowhere, and you know that, or there wouldn’t be people telling you to stop.”
“Right. Hmm.”
“This is very exciting, that you’re having this dream over and over.”
“I think I need a vacation.”

I called my brother and ask about my father’s winter coat. It’s dark green.

One of the lists I keep (I’ve told you about those lists, right?) is the Things I Love list.

So here it is (an excerpt, anyway), taken from post-it notes I leave to remind myself of the little joys in life:

The Things I Love

Broccoli
Q-tips
My appendix scars
Scruffy faces
The smell of laundry
Nicknames
Earlobes
Sugar free Jell-o
Geese
Lullabies
Babies’ feet
I Can’t Believe it’s Not Butter
Barbie
Shoes
Mr. Rochester
Kitten
Mud in my toes
Being needed
Annie’s Song
Bad Reality TV
Apple peels
Target
Attention
Little black dresses
The word “voluptuous”
Gap jeans
Being remembered
Dental floss
Tom Selleck
Wind chimes
Tweezers
Feeling understood
My walk-in closet
Hazelnuts
Kisses
Freckles
Nap time

The weekend was good. Really good. And for no other reason than the people I spent my time with were exactly who I’d chose to do loads of nothing with. Shopping, tea time, more shopping, more tea time. A party, an impromptu fashion show (I’m such an easy-to-work with model) and again more tea time. This tea time thing is starting to be my favorite part of the day. It’s like The Golden Girls over here.

I’m sitting here in my ever-so-soft Victoria’s Secret robe, showered, fed and stalling. Yeah, it’s 6:45 and if I don’t light a fire under my own tush, I’m going to be late. Again. Today is going to be manic — the kind of work day that requires you to be on top of your game. So on top of your game that people won’t be certain whether you’re even playing the same game they are. And I’d so much rather stay home and cuddle with Kitten. Ah, well. As long as I’m going to be making the power plays, might as well dress the part.

It’s all about the fishnet stockings.

*** Edit ***

It’s now 9:30 and I have snagged my stockings, forgotten my lunch and would give anything to trade in this suit for my robe. Gah! Stupid, stupid Monday. It should be tea time.

*** AND!! ***

It’s now 11:30 and box just arrived for me. My little heart got all excited when I opened it to find loads of packing peanuts and two beautifully wrapped gifts… for me to pass on to the Higher Ups. Oh, cruel fate!! What a tease.

*** So ***

It’s about 3:00 and I think the only thing left to do is get ice cream. And contemplate Empire Records. “Don’t let the Man get you down. Damn the Man!”

Dear Love,

I woke up this morning from a dream, sensing a sleeping body next to me. I reached out to pull you closer. But, of course, my hands came up empty. And right then, I felt so intensely lonely — the expanse of my bed like the pre-Columbian ends of the earth.

So, I got up. I made tea and went out to the porch to let the sun kiss my cheeks. My forehead. The tip of my nose. I must have left the burner on — I could hear the kettle whistling for me. I showered, waiting for the cell phone to beep, for the apartment to fill with friends. You won’t be with them this time.

I went back to the sun porch, where I sat in one of those black Urban Outfitter chairs, chain-smoking memories of former loves. One right after the other. And I couldn’t help but smile.

In a minute, when I’m done being angry at it, I’ll go back in and make the bed with fresh sheets. I suppose it’s better to wake up alone from time to time than never to have woken up at all.

Thanks for the memories,

H

It’s that time again — where I tell you what to do and you do it, because you know it will be good for you. Ready?

Buy this CD. Go ahead. You will like it, I promise. Musical Stranger, a.k.a Benjamin Wagner is on tour (maybe in your area!) pimpin’ it as we speak.

Buy it. Go on. Have I ever lead you astray? Wasn’t Parker Grey all I said it was and more?

If you need further convincing, go here and have a taste of the rough cuts. I like this one.

Okay. So you’re ordering your CD right now aren’t you? Yes, thank you. You’ll be glad you did.

Think of it as an investment in the future of music and milk crates.

1. She saves me from myself.

Not only did she refuse to make me a redhead (You just don’t have the coloring, honey), she refused to cut off my hair. (Not in my chair. People PAY for this hair. How about a trim?) We compromised at three inches.

2. The head massage.

It’s like sex. Only, in a chair with your head in the sink, and all your clothes are on and… well, so, it’s nothing like sex except that it feels wicked awesome and is administered by a very cute boy with shiny black shoes and golden fingers.

3. The result.

I want to pet myself endlessly. And take myself on a date. Wow, that’s pathetic, now isn’t it??

I woke up this morning feeling very anxious.

Not to come off as some wacky clairvoyant, but I already know this feeling means something is going to happen. It always does. It could be good; it could be bad. And stumbling into the kitchen this morning, I decided that if it’s going to be something bad, I might as well have ice cream for breakfast. You know, just in case.

And, just in case, I wore jeans (an office nuh-uh), my favorite bra and some really great fuzzy socks. Talismans, maybe.

I’ve been blessed with the Impending Sense of Doom since high school. You may call it intuition if you like, but Impending Sense of Doom is so much more… dramatic. The last time I felt like this, it turned out there were some shenanigans going on between my quasi-boyrfriend and a certain hot tub nymphet. And the time before that, the announcement of my parents’ divorce. (Which sent me into a shame spiral of ridiculous and uncharacteristic behavior. But that story’s been told. No need to rehash.)

At any rate, I’m hoping this sinking feeling in my stomach is related to today’s trip to the hair salon to put an end to these Boticellian locks. A bad haircut, I can handle. Another life-altering turn of events? Yeah, I could handle that too, but if it’s possible, I’d like to avoid that, thank you.

Maybe I should have ice cream for lunch, too. You know, just in case.

We’ve stopped work today to discuss love.

My boss is finding herself in one of those situations where one must choose between love and location. Her boyfriend has been offered a professorship at a prestigious overseas university and she wants to stay put on American soil. And they’re crazy about each other. You know, one of those couples.

So, I find myself screaming, “Be a sucker for love! Go to England!” like I would at the end of some romantic comedy involving say, Colin Firth. This coming from the girl who, in the past, wouldn’t cross a street she didn’t want to for a boy. Now I’m championing for her to cross an ocean?

Love, the tricky bastard, is hard enough to find, that the less-practical part of me thinks that if you’re going to be moved by love, why not move for it? My boss has her feminism, though, and her dreams and career ambitions. And I have my what, sentimentality?

In a bitter moment, I once wrote that there might be no such thing as falling in love. I had decided that the notion of finding overwhelming, incomprehensible kismet with a man — that the “in love” feeling — was just some cocktail I was drunk on after watching too many John Cusak movies.

My theory that boiled down to this:

The adorable Mr. Cusak crushes the “Nice Guys Finish Last” idea by not only finishing far from last, but “finishing” with the most adorable, shockingly down-to-earth, gorgeous girl-next-door co-stars. And he doesn’t make it look easy. So we believe him. It was tough for him, so it was real.

And what do sentimental hearts learn from that?

Love exists, if simply to make us happy AND there are good, silly, but endearing men willing to make a fool of themselves (say, by standing outside your house with a boom-box playing some meaningful, yet sappy song) just to say, “I think you’re pretty damn special.”

And then, somehow it is not only acceptable to believe in purely-motivated, tender, ecstatic love…but it is also fashionable.

And as we all know, I’m never one to argue with fashion.

I’ll keep my theories to myself as my boss works out the practical details of this very difficult decision. But if it were me? I’d probably be looking for my passport.

Sucker.

Today, I am so v. unfortunate to be participating in what the Monkey Profession calls a Charrette. Basically this is a sort of planning retreat where you expend loads of mental energy and refuel with bull shit.

You’re jealous, right?

If you come rescue me, I’ll be yours forever. And I do windows.

This is v. important, y’all. Please vote.

mini skirt + knee high boots =

A) stylish
B) trampy

Maybe I’ve watched just one too many episodes of the Nanny but I came out of my room in a denim mini and tall brown boots feelin’ pretty darn cute. But Roommate tells me I look like I’m “tryin’ to get some.”

Shoot. Guess that means tomorrow I’ll be returning stuff.

Oh, wait! Now he’s explaining! Let’s listen, shall we?

“It’s those long-ass legs of yours!”
“So, you mean, if I were short and stumpy, this would be okay?”
“Well, um, yeah.”
“Nothing I can do about that.”
“And you thought those legs were a gift!”
“Hmmm… no, but now I definitely won’t. Here I thought I was MADE for the mini skirt.”

My personal war on terror is being fought with laughter. And potentially, Wookies, it seems.

J: Is the landlord going to do anything other than replace the glass?
H: I dunno. He didn’t say. But I’m hoping for something like a new force-field around the house.
J: That, or Storm Troopers that lie in wait for any danger to come by.
H: No! Storm Troopers really scare me. I’d be afraid to get lasered if I startled one of them. But you know… What about Wookies? You know I’m really good with animals. They wouldn’t scare me AND they would really mess up intruders.
J: And they could dust all those hard to reach places.

–Wookie in pink and white apron with feather duster–

“You’re the best wookie EVER!”

“AAAARRRRRHHHH” (or however one spells Wookie noises)

H: Sweet! I HATE dusting!!!

Ari: Little early for a wake up call.
H: No kidding! See, if someone had shot my house at say, 7 AM, it would have been much more acceptable.
A: And appropriate as a wake up call. Maybe they thought you had doughnuts to make. Were the cops cute at least?
H: No. They sure were stupid, though.
A: I don’t think the smart ones work that early.
H: Maybe we just got them pre-Dunkin Donuts.
A: 5am… Disgusting.
H: Seriously. Thugism should have regular hours. Like Stop ‘n’ Shop.
A: I absolutely agree with you. You ought to teach a course!! At the Learning Annex.
H: I don’t know if thugs would start to resent all the guidelines…. And the checks for the class would naturally bounce, too.
A: Well… am quite glad you are feeling better at least to where you can joke about it.
H: I think if I don’t joke about it, I’ll be scared all the time…

Which is the sad truth. What with Roommate having a traveling job that will take him out of town again this weekend, humor is about the only thing keeping me from running ‘cross the street in my pajamas and crawling in bed with my friendly neighbors.

The landlord feels pretty terrible, as he’s sure this has to do with the previous tenants, whom he evicted and then had some nasty litigation. Cream of the crop, the last tenants. Turns out, the cops were by on a regular basis for domestic disturbances. I’m afraid Roommate and I are so v. boring by comparison. Here we are, cleaning the yard, making home improvements, being good quiet neighbors and we’re supposed to be thuggin’ up the place. I’ll simply have to watch a few hours of Jerry Springer for tips.

Came home early from work. I was just a wee bit too tired to stick it out for the day in this ridiculous Ally McBeal suit and heels, being gnawed at by this morning’s state of affairs. Please, God, don’t let Kitten eat a bullet. She would, Ya know. So, cabbed it home and first thing was first: I took a tour of the living room to assess the damage.

A brief inspection yielded several finds, including half a dozen BB’s scattered throughout the room. And now all I have to say is,

You fucking terrorized my house with a BB gun?? Sheesh, man. If you’re going to be up and about at 4:30 AM, you should at least be armed with a decent caliber gun. What is wrong with you? You’re no thug. You should be ashamed.

Oh yeah, I talk tough, don’t I? Well, I’m not. I was scared into numbness this morning, standing there in my robe unable to do anything while my roommate cleaned up the mess, called the police and filed the report. Well, I made breakfast. That’s something.

You can’t start off a day of being a victim of random violence on an empty stomach, now can ya?

It sounded like ice being poured into the kitchen sink. But it wasn’t. It was really the front-door glass shattering and falling to the floor, from a shot fired into my house.

Four shots, four shattered windows and shards of glass all over my living room furniture. The police have come and gone and now I’m wide awake at 5:00 wondering what the hell just happened.

Find myself showered and dressed and it’s only 7:56 in the morning. Duty has called (a bit too loudly for a Sunday morning, I might add), and off I go to work. I’m not exactly thrilled.

But, yesterday’s shopping excusion was ever so successful. And when I get home from work this afternoon, I expect you to come over thirsty and sit at my kitchen table with your hand on my thigh.

‘Cause I got me a fancy red tea kettle and a hot new mini skirt.

Yeoow!

That’s what I’m talkin’ about!

The sun is out (though, so is the wind), I am about to embark on an alarming display of consumerism, armed with too much spending power (though, should be paying off my Visa) and I just unearthed this really ass-tastic pair of pants from my closet.

I
will
be
invincible.

My girlfriend will be here soon, and our first order of business is the Home Goods store where I will buy, even when my practical Inner Goddess is balking, The Red Tea Kettle. Even if it IS way more expensive than the less appealing, but equally functioning, chrome ones. I’ve been longing for it. I want it. I want it to come live at my house and make lemon tea.

The rest of the day will be filled with “If you’ll just sign here” and “Black or brown, Em? Or both?” and “You’re sure it’s not too short?” And it will end with good friends and a big piece of red meat at nieghborhood BBQ joint. Which will then end the reign of the ass-tastic pants, but what can ya do?

(Oh, and Matrix Revolutions? Disappointing. Too much love, not enough fighting. And for this girl, that’s sayin’ a lot.)