Right now I’m in the Mudd Manuscript library at Princeton. My brother in law works here, and we’re visiting him and his wife for the weekend. This is a very cool library; we got the tour last time and saw the archives of the ACLU, George McGovern, and a bunch of other good things.
They also have James Baker’s stuff.
I’m writing from the library because the candy-assed coffee shop we went to doesn’t have wireless. What self-respecting coffee shop doesn’t have wireless these days? Anyway, it’s a nice place to be, and I had to get out of the house because my allergies were going bananas. They have a couple of very cool cats, but they do a number on my nose.
Thought I’d share the transcript from a phone call E got from her mom, whom we sometimes entrust with the pets. Although she’s not always johnny-on-the-spot (almost killed Denali one time in a way that I’ll only disclose in person; sometimes puts the lid on the litterbox backwards so that the entrance is flush against the wall; etc), but like my friend who lets his mom babysit his kids even though she always tries to get them to become fundamentalist Christians, the convenience is usually too much to pass up.
It’s the benefit of living across the damn street from one’s mother in law.
Anyway, here’s the call:
This is mom, um, I’m looking for um Denali’s cat food, I mean WhoopyCat’s cat-, McGuire’s cat food. Wondered if she had any more I need to give her if she doesn’t have any. Anyway, give me a call when you can. I love you.
For context, Denali’s a dog, WhoopyCat’s dead, and McGuire’s a male cat. Alas. To quote my mom-in-law, precise memories aren’t exactly “up my forte.”
BTW, it’s nice sometimes to get away, but it was snowing when we landed in Newark. Jeez.