Last night, David defeated me in a game of scrabble. In my defense, I was distracted by a Charlie's Angels marathon (in honor of Farrah Fawcett). We also watched about five or six of Michael Jackson's music videos (and then the Weird Al parodies of those videos). And just as I was starting to feel a little less depressed about everyone dying, a news reporter announced that Billy Mays had died at the age of fifty. And I proclaimed to the heavens, "OxiClean! Noooo!" My mom and I were such big fans, with all of his products in our cupboards.
But now, refreshingly, I'm home in Maryland. My room has been re-arranged and I feel like I'm staying in a hotel (in a good way). The food in the refrigerator does not even feel like part of my territory, so I've placed a bag of melted whoppers from my car on one of the shelves. I'm slowly moving back in, you see.
