Chance of Meatballs

This entry is long and painful so as to mirror the wet agony I experienced yesterday afternoon. The day started out innocently enough, with promises of Flour Bakery brunch and a free MicroBrew fest.

Too bad 40,000 other people had the same idea and there was the terrible, terrible rain. Liz and I spent the day drinking coffee and eating baked goods ("Could I have the last chocolate croissant?" "That's a spinach and feta turnover." "How about the raisin scone then?" "It's actually orange cranberry." "Filthy little hippie.")

Soon enough, 4PM rolled around and I still hadn't gone to Trader Joe's to pick up what I needed for the potluck dinner. "Why don't you just go to the one in Central?" Grand idea. Unfortunately, there was no Trader Joe's anywhere along Mass Ave. Or close to Central Square. I looked. Finally, at 75% soaking capacity and not trusting the Starbucks girl's vague pointers, I had to call TChu-- that smug, punctual, bastard with a great sense of direction. And as I walked southeast on Magazine, I cursed him under my breath for a. using ordinal directions* and b. being absolutely right.

By the time I reached Trader Joe's, I was beyond saturation point and ready to use my last lifeline. Kevin. ("I can pick you up, but where are you?" "Um... I came from Central but that's not... I'm in a plaza with a Starbucks..." "Could you put Joy back on the phone? She usually knows where she is.") Of course I pretended that he should only stop by if "it's on the way." And I just "wanted to see when he was going to dinner." And of course, he saw through it, picked me up, and made a wholly questionable pasta salad we all had to compliment.

Then Nic let me use her dryer, sleep in the daybed, and made everything better.

*I spent most of my 4th grade year not comprehending English. Consequently, I have a strong dislike for everything I missed in school that year: ordinal directions, state capitals, and Little House on the Prairie.