This man is my new boyfriend. Most likely that means he is married or gay. He knew where to buy the best dildo’s in SF. So…

Louise posted his wonderful article about Harry Potter critics on Satan’s Bookclub, from which that wonderful title came. Such genius that both of us almost gave up writing entirely. Because we felt we’d never reach that pinnacle. Almost.

I can’t sleep because I’m having vicious allergy attacks. I think the whole neighborhood mowed their lawns this weekend. Green grass is my very best allergy. I’ve worked very hard in my life to make it at least 7 x’s as bad as all the other allergies in my head. My head is full of cement, stuff is dripping out of my nose and down my throat and I’ve given up breathing. Which is making me very light headed and dizzy. But it’s worse when I lay down. Of course.

So I was standing there in the kitchen, breathing through my mouth, staring up at the halogen lights that I don’t really like. And I lowered my sights to the butcher block beside the fridge that held the diet coke my stepdad left behind when he headed back up north today. When I spied some cookbooks. Which I had not noticed in the six months I’ve been back in the house. One of them was called “Help, my Apartment has a Kitchen.” That sounded my speed. So I was browsing through it and, low and behold, the most craved food I never ever ever get to eat… Beef Stroganoff. It said it was an easy recipe. Maybe I’ll try it. It requires me handling food, however. And then preparing it. And I never feel like eating food, if I have to prepare it.

Then I saw a Pictorial Cookbook from Nova Scotia. And that made me laugh. Fucking Nova Scotia! You see, about six months after the divorce was final, my stepdad asked me to stop by the house and water his garden for him, while he went camping. I asked him where he was going and he said he was going to to go up to Canada… drive around… camp a little. At this point, he still had not admitted he was seeing someone. So he takes off, when he gets back, he gives me a cd that he bought for me. In Nova Scotia. He did not drive up to Canada and do a little camping. He went to FUCKING NOVA SCOTIA!! Look, here’s Seattle and ….. here is Nova Scotia. You’ve got Seattle, Venezuela, Beirut, Africa, Cincinnati, Hanging Gardens of Babylon… Nova Scotia.* In my family, it is tradition to tell someone when you are leaving the general area, especially if you are getting on a plane, so if it crashes, we know to drive to wherever and look for your body. You certainly do not go to the OTHER SIDE OF THE FUCKING CONTINENT, leaving the Country, without maybe a little note. It was apparent that my mom used to take care of such things. Anyway, when I relayed the story to her, I was still rather stunned, so every time it came out “He flew to fucking NOVA SCOTIA!! Nova fucking Scotia!!”

So, it’s become a bit of a personal joke that whenever someone does something so stunningly different from what they told you they were going to do, because they didn’t want to tell you something. Like the fact that they are seeing the woman that maybe they were sort of seeing before the separation and she happens to be from Nova Scotia so you are both going there. I like to call that “Going to Fucking Nova Scotia.” I have absolutely nothing against Nova Scotia. It looks absolutely gorgeous! In fact, I’d like to go there some day. I’m going down on record to say that I would like to visit fucking Nova Scotia. As well as Montreal. And Nunavut! I’d like to go to Nunavut to visit Elle. Just not in the winter, as I don’t think I have the proper coat for the climate.

*I love you Eddie Izzard!