Well, actually, I was born in small town.

No I cannot forget where it is that I come from
I cannot forget the people who love me
Yeah, I can be myself here in this small town
And people let me be just what I want to be

Got nothing against a big town
Still hayseed enough to say
Look who's in the big town
But my bed is in a small town
Oh, and that's good enough for me.

Only, that's not really true. Not all of it anyway. I felt stifled and sweaty, like waking up in the night with the covers twisted around my body when it isn't even cold anyway.

We've been approved for an apartment in Burbank. An apartment roughly twenty yards away from a Starbuck's. Not a creek. Not a hayfield. A Starbuck's. And now that I'm thinking of it, what does their logo mean? Does it really have anything to do with Moby Dick? Because it should.

Call me Frappacino.

Rented Bridget Jones's Diary last night. I'd never seen it before. One of my guilty pleasures is chick lit novels and, Helen Fielding being the queen, I was sort of holding out to read the book. But John has been wanting to go to the movies and I'm sick of seeing Renee Zellweger's face everywhere without having any clue as to what was really going on. So we saw the sequel today.

And I really didn't like either of them. I just hate being out of the loop.

The rather obvious references to Pride and Prejudice were more than a little disconcerting. The best part of the whole experience is the idea that all British women are somehow influenced by Jane Austen the way American women are influenced by Cosmo.

That's not true, of course. Really, it's not all that true that all American women read Cosmo, either, for that matter. But a Jane-filled country is such a pretty thought.

Especially when what's been occupying your brain for the rest of the day is how you're ever going to pay rent in Southern California.


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