Don't have to live like a refugee

Last night's dinner: $45 champagne and reheated Papa John's served on a paper bag. I was helping Kay the Official Homeowner pack up some stuff in her apartment, and that's just how things go down in these transitional periods. You have a little black tie/hobo-style mashup for dinner, you put on some Tom Petty, and you wrap a bunch of glass in newspaper. Circle of life. Pretty sure last time I was moving I paired a Macallan 1947 with some cold beans eaten out of the can, so, kind of the same deal.

Moving: sometimes things get weird.

Which reminds me, if you don't have any interest in what I'm eating or in examining my infant's aging process on a semi-daily basis, following me is probably going to be fairly unpleasant. I guess check in on weekends to see how many more gardening tools I have disabled? And actually, if you want to be useful, I'm taking suggestions for any other clichéd topics I can cover, in the hopes of creating a sort of überclichéblog. Kind of no point in doing things halfway, you know?

I think our afternoon activity is probably going to get called on account of weather plus foul baby mood, so the revised plan is to make Old Fashioned Blueberry Cake from 101 Cookbooks. I'm pretty optimistic about it, despite her promise of "lots of tiny pockets of oozy berry flesh," like it's some sort of confectionary Black Plague victim.