Well, it’s Monday again. I

Well, it’s Monday again. I have no school shows, which means no children to count. I have a boss in a meeting, so no boss to impress. I have a moment or two to spare where someone isn’t looking over my shoulder and wondering why I’m not being productive.

Pretty fleeting, wasn’t it?

I (heart) Kant is taking over my entire life. When I’m asleep, I’m dreaming of the line notes I should’ve sent out before bed. When I’m at work - and I’m supposed to be thinking about children - I’m pondering ways the attempted-sex-with-girl-who’s-just-passed-out-from-too-much-heroin scene could be better. As I’m forcing the too-hot-but-I’ll-drink-it-anyway SCT kitchen coffee down my throat, I’m wondering what kind of juice will look most like white wine, and which type of gatorade will look most like bile. Also, what kind of potato chips did people eat in 1992? Where does Gary go after which scene, and which hat does he take off and which string does he pull and am I going to be able to get a red helium ballon that will stay aloft for three days straight? And how the hell am I going to be able to remove the stuffed cat’s head and re-attach it at a proper angle? I need a nap. The weekend, sadly, did not provide that.

The weekend did, however, provide us with a little flood. Our bedroom window leaked, and our mattress became, as one friend so eloquently put it, our apartment’s tampon. Much chaotic excitement ensued, and the end of this story is that we’re going to have to throw away our mattress. Don’t feel too bad for us, though - we stole it from the “shit I don’t want anymore - do you?” vestibule in the basement of our building where old furniture goes to die. Now, it’s just squooshy and makes funny noises and drips onto our carpet.

Because of said ickyflood, we were late for the Jorgensen bash as well. And here, I need to pay a little homage to afore-mentioned wise tampon-friend. Awhile ago, he posted something that pretty much exactly described the way I feel at parties. This one was a little different, but much of the sentiment still applied. There were a lot of people I knew and loved there, but there were a sufficient percentage of people I’d never seen before to just make me shut down. Truth be told, I’m really NOT an outgoing person, and big old groups of unfamiliar faces just turns me into a total gibbering schmuck. So, Ms. Pratt and I held court on the porch for awhile, because if we sat there and smoked for long enough, people we knew and loved kept cycling out to the porch, where we would grasp them in our greedy little clutches until they were finished smoking, and the cycle would begin again. I know it’s Gillian and Erin’s house now, and it looks so so beautiful, and it makes me happy to go there to visit the Gilly, but at the same time, I still get these weird pangs when I go there. You know, those weird little heart-pangs that sort of make your chest tighten and your brow knit, and you say to yourself “Oh. A pang.” There’s a part of me that still gets sad going there, because I instantly flash back to every time I went over there to snuggle on the couch with Meaghan and drink tea and watch Buffy, and it takes a moment for that to go away. For one reason or another, the combination of these things was enough to keep me on the porch, and for my part I enjoyed that a great deal. I guess it takes awhile for that sort of thing to go away.