One of my first Internet experiences was at a cybercafé in Harvard Square circa 1996 (or more accurately, circa home access @ 14.4Kbps). There I sat with a seemingly limitless T1 line and the whole world to savor.

I remember that one of my first searches was on Nick Hornby-- and I was literally giddy (you remember when we didn't take for granted all of this sheer access at our fingertips, don't you?) to find this whole other world of writing he had done: record reviews and personal essays and his richly gifted ability to combine the two with the most heartfelt and genuine results. And I couldn't help but think of how wonderful it would be to have a collection of them all-- bound up in a neatly designed little book.

Which is why it's so touching to me that my very wish appeared in my mailbox today: Songbook by Nick Hornby. A collected book of essays on 31 songs-- and oblique inbetweens on music and love and life-- along with a mixed CD featuring 11 of the 31 discussed tracks. It has peculiar illustrations by Marcel Dzama, was published by McSweeney's Books, and benefits two good causes in TreeHouse and 826 Valencia. Put simply, it's a dream come true.

I'm definitely beginning to think that Erika is not just a friend, but a Fairy Godmother as well.

Thanks Frerika-- you rock, per usual.

Tonight B and I talked about bedtimes. How he shouldn't feel bad about being an early-to- bed-early-to-rise kind of guy (read: I should stop using that tone in my voice when I wish him goodnight as he settles into bed before 10pm.) And how I shouldn't feel bad about not waking up until 10am on most work mornings (read: He should stop using that tone in his voice when I groggily answer the phone with a "good morning" when it's actually much closer to noon.)

We laughed about how sometimes when we're together, he makes me go to bed early. And I lay awake for a long time and think. And stare. And this sometimes results with me poking him accidentally somewhere on the face, usually close to his eye.

"Are you awake?"

I told him maybe we could practice him sleeping with his head on my tummy while I read. But then he complained that my tummy makes funny noises while its trying to digest it's 63rd spinach-pecan-cranberry-bleu cheese salad in as many days. Which became B's brilliant segue from sleeping to my salad obsession as the chief topic about which to tease Kristen. And we forgot all about bedtimes.

Except right now. When I'm about to turn in. And I think about our attempt at a compromise. And I like the idea that we're going to have a good-long-while filled with lots and lots of bedtimes to try it on for size very, very soon.

I like that part best of all.

Catching up on two weeks worth of Washington Posts that piled up when I forgot to suspend my delivery before storming out of town, I ran across something funny-- albeit now a little dated.

Kramerbooks & Afterwords Café-- a favorite happy hour spot for Melica and I with their yummy sangria-- started serving a Trent Lotte: "Separate but equal parts espresso and steamed milk, served in two different containers, leaving it up to the drinker to integrate the two together."

I love things like this. When I read them I remember why I moved here.

The other day B was making a bunch of excuses for not having a big, heavy pot in which to make his mother's stew. And then suddenly in the middle of all of the excuses, he just stopped-short and said, "I've just been too lazy to buy one." Ahhhh-- I love honesty.

It reminded me of the fact that I broke my favorite calculator about six months ago-- this big chunky black one with huge numbers and a mondo display. I think the solar power just got powered-out-- in the end I could barely read the numbers anymore. Sniff.

But did I go buy a new one? Nope. I just settled for using either (1) my computer's calculator-- extremely annoying due the fact of not having a calculator-like number keypad on my laptop and the hassle of having to set the windows side-by-side in order to calculate and record at the same time, or (b) my handspring's calculator-- just generally annoying in that stylus tap-tap-tap kind of way.

So while I was in Ohio over the not-so-new year, I asked my dad-- who gave me the original big, lovable, perfect calculator in the first place-- if he had another one or could tell me where to find one. He had like-- no joke-- seven of them in various places in the house. He rescued one lonely guy from an end table drawer in the basement, dusted him off, and handed him to me. I was in love-- again.

And so when B brought up the fact that he was too lazy to buy a stew pot, it reminded me that for sixth months I had been too lazy to buy a calculator-- a $1, blissful, perfect, big display calculator that I use at least 20 times a day. And now that I have one, it makes me so so so happy.

Sometimes I'm all about minor delays and postponements of things that would ultimately bring me so much joy. The calculator and the telephone calls that I owe Melica and Melanie and the long-overdue letters that I owe Jay and Janet and Krista and Noel. The pile of newspapers and a good slow breakfast and a trip to the gym. A walk to the library. A plane reservation.

Time to get motivated, un-laze myself, and act on all of my very smallest desires.

Dammit.

I can't possibly be expected to keep this whole Saruman and Sauron thing straight. What writer in their right mind gives his two epically big bad guys essentially the same name? J.R.R.Tokien, that's who.

I felt so stupid when-- just minutes after leaving the theatre mind you-- B began to comment on how the only big big bad left for the third movie was Sauron. And I'm thinking... "Ummm, did you see the big flood and the water and the freaked out look on his face? He looked pretty doomed to me." And by the completely puzzled look on my face, he realized that he had to explain that Saruman was the stark white wizard and that Sauron was the big bad eye guy-- which I immediately interpreted as being old the lazy-googly-eyed guy who was spending most of his time whispering to the King. And when I saw him last, he looked about as screwed as the stark white wizard to me-- but I decided to nod and look confident and change the subject those warm and fuzzy trees that I liked so much.

Only to find out tonight, while talking to Erika, that the lazy-googly-eyed guy wasn't Sauron at all-- but some Wormtongue guy-- and that Sauron was actually some big fiery eyeball character from the first movie who I have no memory of whatsoever.

Dammit. Dammit. Dammit.

Like I told Erika, I'm not stupid, but I'm beginning to believe I either need some Cliffs notes-- or I need to stick to Buffy.

The new year accosted me. I was not in any way prepared. So I just put it on hold. Refused to take its calls. You know what I'm talking about.

Instead of striding into 2003, I've been rereading my favorite Calvin and Hobbes book and watching 23 episodes of Sports Night. I'm slaving to wrap a project that both infuriates and challenges me more and more each day. I practically ate my weight in snickerdoodles and french mint chocolates. I bought a new dream curl serum that doesn't make me smell like wet dog. I've been running through the snow with my dad and Gus and explaining both the chronological and metaphorical meaning of Vanilla Sky to my mom-- again. I lost $2.80 in poker. And I wore my dad's new OSU wool cap while I watched my alma matter claim the Division IA College Football National Championship.

But I didn't welcome any new year into my life. At least not yet.

I'll get there... eventually.