This weekend, I had a much needed break from the rat race known as work. I took the bus to Boston to visit the pillar of silliness (not of her Somerville community, unfortunately). My best friend, Cat. We did anything and everything, because Sunday's planned jaunt to Provincetown didn't happen. Thank you Mother Nature for pissing on our parade, literally. Due to the steady rain that- even today, continues to come down like a pregnant woman's bladder- the boats going out to P-town were cancelled. We got up extraordinarily early Sunday morn, freshly bathed, glossed, scented. Bottles of water & Ginger-ale in-tow and made our way (on the subway) to downtown Boston. Stoked and practically skipping to the ticket booth to purchase our boat-ride only to have our fag-hag dreams of grandeur dashed. I'll walk you through it... "The boat to Provincetown has been cancelled" the woman told us from behind the booth. "Ohhhh noooo" we both whined. "Yeah, and today closes the season." the woman added. For some reason, Cat and I thought the woman seemed a little too pleased to be relaying this disappointing information to us. I swear I saw somewhat of a smirk playing at the corners of her mouth. "There are buses going out there at 2:00 if you'd like. The bus will get there at about 5pm" she said, matter-of-factly. "No thanks" Cat replied, dryly. The look of disappointment that was apparent on my face prompted another employee, a man, standing on the opposite side of the booth to opine, "Aw, you don't wanna go out there no way, with this weather." I wanted to rip his heart out of his chest, hold it up in the air in triumph as it pulsated in my hand and reply, "Yes! I do!" as I laughed maniacally. Instead, I just shrugged my shoulders indifferently at him. In a 'shut up, who asked you.' way. I hate it when you're already a little down and someone deems it necessary to give you that one last kick to the ribs, for good measure. Dejected and verbally abusive towards one another, Cat and I retreated, plotting what to do next. We decided to go have breakfast at the Charles Davis Hotel. En route, we saw a disheveled looking man, trying to coax a tubby black and white cat on a leash, to follow him. The cat was adamant in its resistance. Paws splayed, belly fat quivering, as it tried in vain to stay fastened to the wet sidewalk. "C'mon Charlie, you need your exercise!" the man begged and pleaded. But Charlie would have none of itt. We watched for a spell and then chuckled the rest of the way to the Charles David. Breakfast-fat and over the fact that we would have to wait until next Spring to live it up in Provincetown, we found alternate things to do. Over the course of the weekend we got mannies, we ate at a quaint Irish pub called Burren, we ducked into cafes gorging ourselves on coffee, and we went to the movies to see The Wedding Crashers... which was hilarious. Of course we haunted the joint of choice, which is The Enormous Room, where we stumbled on some sort of fundraiser for the African Leadership Academy Which was founded on the belief that a new generation of selfless and committed leaders is the key to Africa's developement. In its attempt, the academy recruits the most talented 15-18 year olds from 54 countries in Africa, where they spend the final 2 years of secondary school at the South African campus *(completely stole that mission statement from the brochure)*. Interesting cause. Anyway, we had glasses of wine and sangria, respectively, talked to one of the event organizers, and went home. We sat in the subway, drunk with wine and fatigue. Cat saw a rat run along, on the other side of the terminal. I thought she hallucinated the whole sighting, but hey, I think I saw it too??? I think. Although we didn't make it to Provincetown before the season closed, we figured we could indulge our fledgling fag-haggedness next Spring. Needless to say, the weekend went swimmingly. On a completely different note, I've discovered that my blog is being studied and dissected (among others) in what appears to be a college course on blogging. This surprises me, because as I've stated before, I don't blog for popularity. I blog to indulge my writing so that my creative streak doesn't dry up.... Oh, who am I kidding! It allows me to swim in a thick foam of self-absorbency. I'm pleased to discover, however, that people are closely studying the lunacy that is my life. One student surmised that although my blog 'isn't really about anything' that I was a hilarious woman and was great at relaying stories. Thank you, sir, for that. I wouldn't say that my blog isn't really about anything, per se. It's about everything and nothing. The mundane and the insane.tThings that are relevant to me. In essence, my blog is the Seinfeld of blogs. I am pleased to know that people can get somewhat of a smirk (or sneer) at my self-deprecating, self-absorbency. My constant lamenting over being dateless, the weirdos I attract, and matters of the like. It gives me great pleasure to air my dirty laundry while entertaining my need to write and post silly pictures from my digital photo diary. Thank you and good night.