I’ve been thinking of you often, dear readers, over the course of the past week and a half. On the T, sitting down for coffee, at concerts and sporting events — I’ve inevitably thought about how I’m going to need to tell you about it all. In my wild imagination, posting of such anecdotal information would result in a deluge of comments from you lurkers, in which you tell me all about how you are doing wherever you are.

Ha! What whimsy!

Anyway, much has happened since last I wrote. I began to settle into my new apartment and managed to put together one of the two IKEA furniture pieces I purchased for my new bedroom. The assembly only took two tries, a little help, and a mishap that threatened for a moment my blossoming relationship with one of the two cats with which I live (in other words, not half bad). I took in a few shows, wrote a few reviews, caught a couple of Bruins games. Oh, and the Patriots played a game. Minor detail, right?

No, actually. And in all honesty, I should apologize to every Patriots fan out there (all 1% of the football-viewing public) for the manner in which I failed you on the Sunday of Which We Dare Not Speak. See, I remain confident that my presence at the game would have resulted in a win, given the fact that I went 4-0 over the course of the entire season, 2-0 in postseason. Had I thought to point this out to John Krasinski, and had he logically been dazzled by me enough to bring me along on his trip to Glendale, we would have had a victory parade today. I’m sorry. I’ll do better next year, I promise.

The hectic pace with which last week threw tasks and events my way reached its peak on Saturday, when I found myself awfully close to being doublebooked. I’d been graced with tickets to the Bruins-Red Wings game at the Garden v2.0, but I also had tickets to the Who’s That Pack Tour late show at Club Passim. Rather than say no to either event, I said yes to both and raced across the metro area with Michelle in order to make it all work.

And it did, too — to an extent. The Bruins lost, proving that the karma generated by my childhood trips to the Red Wings farm team games in upstate New York had come back to bite me (although I’m still loving that Aaron Ward is on the Bs); the typically phenomenal folks over at Club Passim decided that paying in advance for table (more expensive) seating shouldn’t necessarily mean that patrons should sit at a table. Or, at least, not without giving those patrons a lot of attitude. I hoped at the time that it was an off night.

In hindsight, it was a sign that the stars were off-aligned and that the Patriots would lose the next day.

The good news is that the actual performance aspect of the night was as goofy fun as that the boys of the Pack have always delivered. Music was played, the Stones were covered, laughter was had, songs were interrupted by laughter, shirts were stripped away…just another typical night at a Cambridge folk spot.

I was able to smile at it all from my spot on the aisle, smiling at the boys who always manage to let loose when they’re together but still deliver strong tunes. And it was nice to try to slink away post-show, part of an effort to avoid the junior high sense of the wait around to try to steal a moment of the cool kids’ time vibe that inevitably arises, but to be stopped from doing so by my favorite of the cool kid bunch. Sometimes a girl just needs to be reminded that she wouldn’t be stealing time, she’d be saying hi to a friend. A wonderful, furry friend who gives good hug.

I’ve just finished reading the latest addition to my Nick Hornby collection, and I’m quite relieved that the consumption is over. Housekeeping vs. the Dirt is quintessential Hornby, by which I mean that it is brilliant and graceful prose. With the exception of How To Be Good, a book I’ve never had any desire to read for a reason I can’t quite figure out, every one of Hornby’s works reminds me of what kind of writing voice I would love to have. That odds are slim that I will ever reach the point of conveying a message with such simple intelligence, so reading Hornby is also an exercise in jealous frustration. Apparently I’m a literary masochist.

The reason I’m happy to be finished with Hornby for the moment, though, is the fact that his voice tends to seep into a reader’s brain. Or at least mine. The book can be carefully tucked away in my bag when I step off the bus in the morning, but I have this wry British voice – male – speaking the thoughts that are going through my mind. It’s not what a young American woman needs, especially when she’s yet to have her morning coffee.

Don’t believe me? Just look at Britney.

Finally, dear readers, I make up for my absence with an observation: Emergen-C is amazing, a huge help to those battling colds. I am cured from mine, and I’d begun to assume that it would linger through April. That said, that whole “Super Orange – great flavor!” prominently displayed on the box?

BIG LIE.

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