Elvis: Sometimes people ask you, "If you could live in any other time, what time would you choose?" But the other night after watching Elvis Costello rock out to "(What's So Funny About) Peace, Love, and Understanding" at the end of his guest-host stint on the David Letterman show, I immediately knew that I would never want to live in a time that didn't allow me to see or hear this performance or know his magic clanging guitar or swoon at his snarled, biting lyrics. I love to live in a world where every sister has her own Elvis.

Erika Krouse: The only time I really ever rekindle the desire to be a short story writer is immediately upon finishing a new story by Erika Krouse. The latest one I read, "The Good Times Are Killing Me", courtesy of a link to Ploughshares from Laine, made my insides burn with the desire to live inside of her writing voice. Her characters inspire my own quixotic actions and fill me with olive green envy and make my mind race with possibilities. Amazing.

Six Feet Under: When I moved into my apartment over two years ago, I thought that living directly behind a funeral home would grant me endless tales about death in that Alan-Ball-quirky-Six-Feet-Under way. But as I locked my back gate to start off for the post office on Thursday, watching the nice father and son team lower a casket from the second floor to load it into the hearse, I realized that I almost never see things like this happening. And that even when I do, there is usually no true poetry associated with the actions. The funeral home is just a place to which I sometimes see flowers being delivered and around which dark-suited men linger smoking cigarettes and with a parking lot in which I can conveniently park my car for loading and unloading from long trips. I wanted drama, but I got life instead.

Laughter: Last night I called B and he picked up the phone laughing harder that I have ever heard him laugh before. Should James Lipton ask, that is my new favorite sound.

The Todd boycott ended abruptly today only 26 hours and 43 minutes after it began when I was forced to put together impromptu Oscar night plans to coincide with a spur-of-the-moment business trip to Boston the week after next. Since then I've received a troll alert, a boyfriend spotting, his confirmation that Crispin Glover is the weirdest celebrity alive, and a new nickname, Goldmine, to put in play a recent comment about me made by IMI's Federal Senior Account Manager.

I think the boycott made me more productive, but it wasn't very much fun.

As of 9:14amEST, I am boycotting Todd for a whole week. He's just under my skin in that way that he gets when I haven't had enough coffee and he isn't taking enough credit hours to occupy his time in any other way than picking on me.

I'm sure he'll find something grammatical up there on which to take me to task-- but as of 26 minutes ago, I'm oblivious.

I was being oh-so productive: a Coast Guard documentation analysis, report of findings, budget scope, client conference call, and then ------WHAM! I landed in the middle of The Brunching Shuttlecocks web site and couldn't find my way out.

I had to email Todd to find out if they still serve birthday cake at the MEDITECH company meeting as I was reminded of during the "Thoughts from the All-Company Meeting". Then I found out my name as a C.Y.B.O.R.G. acronym would be: Kinetic Robotic Individual Skilled in Troubleshooting and Efficient Nullification. And then I laughed for a good long while watching the endless stream of "Your Roommate Plays the Indigo Girls".

Some people just have a fantastic sense of humor.

I'm so lucky B is one of them-- thanks for the link. PS.

B's boy jeans fit my curves in a funny way-- but wearing them makes me feel closer to him. They're oh-so-soft and secrete the starchy, fresh laundry smell of his overly-stuffed closet. And I like to pick lightly at the slightly scuffed fringes at the bottom of the right leg when I'm trying to think of the next sentence to write.

There are a million of these little things-- at once both a comfort and a curse.

Just missing him. No big surprise.

My ceilings are too low. And so is my heart.

This morning I tried to turn on my kitchen faucet as if it had separate hot/cold knobs, just like B's kitchen sink does. Even my most innate movements are betrayed by cruel geography. My apartment seems strange and empty and nothing like home.

I've got lots of catching up to do, sharing a million little stories about Scrabble and caricatures and mysteriously-located movie theatres and creaky ferris wheel rides. But I'm going to hold onto them tonight-- let them keep me company for now.