1. On the way to Sudbury we passed a billboard that read “Foucault’s Trailer Rentals!” which is almost as good as that time there was a newspaper article about a wrestler named Foucault.
2. Also on the way to Sudbury, I was asleep and listening to some old school Smashing Pumpkins, while my father had the William Tell Overture playing on the radio and was explaining to my sister that in that piece they use cannons. While asleep, I was able to listen to the William Tell Overture and the conversation in question over Billy Corgan’s dulcet tones and realize that, actually, my father was completely wrong, thus, when I woke up from my nap about fifteen minutes later, I announced, in my typical non-sequitorial style, that, actually it’s the 1812 Overture that’s got the cannons, not William Tell, and they’re by, like totally different composers, GOSH. And it is moments like that, when I am able to engage in musical recognition exercises while sleeping, that I regain my confidence in my choice of profession.
3. Tonight we are having turkey dinner. This probably does not seem unusual, given the time of year, however, it is important to realize that I am currently at my Italian grandparents’ house, and turkey dinner is not something that Italians do. The whole concept is kind of amazingly incongruous. My grandmother is a fabulous cook – she makes homemade pasta that will melt on your tongue and make all of your troubles disappear. Turkey, however, is not exactly her strong suit. In fact, I would go so far as to suggest that she should never bother with turkey. And yet, that is what we are eating tonight, even though the main thing that I actually look forward to about coming here is eating homemade pasta until I can’t move anymore. When my father told me we were having turkey, all I could do was repeat “But . . . all I want is spaghetti . . . why? Why turkey?” with a slightly slack-jawed expression on my face. He has advised me not to think too hard about it or blood might start slowly dripping out my ear from brain-overexertion. I remain concerned. This whole situation is disturbingly similar to when my other, German grandmother makes lasagna. Her interpretation of lasagna tends to rely on onions as its major ingredient which is really . . . unfortunate.
4. Chris Leavins, you are my soulmate. Or, well, Simon the cat is my soulmate, at least.
I also am in love with Simon, or really, any kitty, but before moving in I was under the delusion that living does not require the company of cute animals and signed an agreement with my Evil Landlord that I would not aquire any pets.
All my dreams are dead.