Transplanted Life
Saturday, March 17, 2007
Winter could be distributed better
I never really liked winter, but in previous years it's seemed to be a smoother season. I remember growing up, snow would come down fairly steadily between December and March. It melted, and we had mud season. Now it seems like we get a bunch of snow once a month, and then it turns into slush and junk right away. I think part of it is that I live in the city as opposed to the burb where I grew up, and the sewer and subway and all melts the bottom layer.

The snow killed my plans with Kate last night; we were going to see the first part of the Brattle's "Hot Fuzztival", hoping maybe to score pass for the free preview of Hot Fuzz next week. But, it took me forever to get home from Waltham last night, and even if you're making that trip on a bus, it saps any desire to head back out into it afterward.

Kate totally understood, although we might hook up later this evening if we feel the sky clearing up is for real. Besides, there's no food in this apartment, so it's an excuse to go out.

Side note: I'm glad we decided on a simple system of alternating checks when we go out. The first time, it was a bit of a thing: The check comes, and we both just kind of look at it, since we're both used to the other person picking it up when out on a date. I reach for it, because I've got more guy stuff on my resume, but Kate points out that just because I remember what it was like to be a man doesn't mean I have to fill that role now. I say I don't mind, but she says it's not a cool precedent. She takes out a coin, flips it, I pay that time and we've taken turns since.

At least I was able to get home. Amy was out with friends, working on projects that they wanted to finish before spring break, and opted not to come home. When she did make it back this morning, she found her place had been broken into. Again. At least nothing was stolen this time, just everything out of place in a way not exactly consistent with her roommate being a slob (which isn't the case, anyway).

She called me and Gertie about it, although there's not much I could think of to do. She got busy cleaning up before Tricia got home. I told her that it's probably about time to call Agent Jones; this is way past a job for amateur sleuths. She's beginning to think that way, but she wants to consult with her biological parents, first, even if that means telling them everything. They've got a right to know, she figures, and they deserve to find out in person, before the FBI starts turning their lives upside down.


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