Nobody Puts Baby in the Corner

Have I talked about my cat, Baby? Originally, I was torn between naming her Penelope Whitmore and Beyonce, in the meantime called her Baby, and it stuck. Although I adopted her as an adult, her name was Miss T, and it had to be changed. No daughter of Mr. T would be hanging out at my house.

She's can't meow properly. And she's absolutely insane, like, will unpredictably lash out at people. Well, people other than me, partially because I'm the center of her universe, her one true love, the hand that feeds her. I can also tell when she's in a bad mood and might lash out. Anyway, she is also a really great snuggler, and has killed a mouse or two in her day, so I keep her around, cock block or not. My roommates have been really patient in regards to the cat, for example, not flipping out if she scratches one of their friends. I guess nobody puts Baby in the corner.

A few minutes ago, I was sitting in the kitchen, working on a paper, and the door to Rebecca's room opened. This kind of thing really freaks me out, I mean really. Then the internet stopped working. I went into the other room an gchatted Angela:

 me:  did you get my last chat?

rebecca's door just opened by itself.

then the internet stopped working.

WHAT THE FUCK

 Angela:  I responded...it's the wind!

 me:  the wind made the internet stop working??

i'm thoroughly freaked the fuck out.

baby seems to be cool, though, so i guess it can't be a serious ghost.

 Angela:  Yeh, I would trust baby...if there was something super-natural in there, she'd be clinging to the ceiling fan.

 me:  or trying to attack it.

Then I posted on Rebecca's wall and said, Um, your door just opened by itself and then the internet stopped working. Be honest, are you hiding a ghost in your room? You KNOW I'm like, really scared of ghosts.

Rebecca: You probably know I don't believe in ghosts, so, how could I hide something I don't believe in in my room? (Cue a bunch of really boring stories about how someone swears they saw a ghost once.)

Rebecca: Maybe your cat attacked and killed someone and they're hiding out in my giant closet? That's more plausible.

Angela: Guess I should call Cole [her boyfriend] and make sure he's still alive.

Best Brunch and Where to Find It

I had to be out of my Gilman Street apartment by noon on the first of July. It took me right up until 11:59 to throw the last box down the stairs, sweep and find a piece of paper to leave a note with my new address. The first of July was a Thursday, and we had advertised a huge 4th of July cookout for that Sunday. This gave us exactly two days to unpack, organize, clean, hang pictures, etc. One of those days being Angela's birthday, and all of us working in some capacity on one or both of those days. There wasn't very much time, and honestly, I kind of freaked out.

The biggest job, by far, was the kitchen. I started Saturday morning, and balls to the wall, unpacked everything. Much to my discouragement, this is approximately what I found: five coffeemakers (four percelators and a press,) two blenders, two food processors, two mortar and pestles,  two dish racks, at least two, sometimes three containers of every spice imaginable, seven wooden spoons of various shapes and sizes, eighteen pint glasses, twenty mugs, five whisks AND  an old school crank mixer AND a Kitchen Aid mixer, two full sets of china, a partridge and a fucking pear tree. I was feeling stressed, and opening another box and finding another double or triple was making it worse. Especially because hardly any of this stuff belonged to me, and how was I going to decide whose things were kept and what went into storage? But in the back of my mind, I kept thinking to myself, "Amanda. It's going to be alright. They are going to use these magic kitchen devices to feed you incredible meals and you're going to be happy."

I was right. This morning Rebecca had some friends over for a brunch/bluegrass jam session (yes, that's what they call these things.) I was treated to the following: crepes with either homemade pesto cream cheese or a strawberry rhubarb sauce (strawberries from Rebecca's garden, rhubarb from the farm,) sliced mango and peach, homemade pain au lait bread, (baked by one of Rebecca's friends the day before, kind of tasted like pound cake,) a crab/avocado/cream sauce of some sort over a poached egg ON the fresh baked bread, coffee, bellinis, and sun-dried tomatoes. But I don't even know where the sun-dried tomatoes were supposed to go. And we ate on the porch. It was amazing, and I didn't do a goddamn thing. I'm seriously going to have to do some hardcore cleaning, grocery shopping and sweet talking to be able to hold up my end of the roommate bargain. Anyone on a quest for the best brunch spot in town, look no further. My house!

Oh, and to top the whole thing off, I'm sitting in my living room, checking my email. Rebecca is bustling in the kitchen, preparing for her guests to arrive. I hear a motorcycle pull up, and I run to the window. I decided way back in our days of frequenting Bentley's that one of my summer goals is to get on the back of one of those things, along with skinny dipping and Moose River and Great Falls Balloon Fest. I've had a few leads, but it'd be awesome if he ended up being my neighbor. Then I realize, the guy that gets off the bike, no jacket, no helmet, is kind of hot. He stands there for a second looking at his phone, and I run to the kitchen to get Rebecca. "REBECCA, get over here." (The sixteen year old in me lives on.) She's like oh, I know that guy. He's here for bluegrass. "Hey! C'mon in!" He walks in, I shake his hand, and realize that he looks like this guy, only younger: