I come for your sauce, I come for your bread

So in my last post I marveled at the amazing fresh squeezed orange juice at my newfound haven, and while it remains the same great glass of sun-ripened sweetness, things have changed. Namely I can't wait to move into my new apartment. To have a place to call my own. To have a place where I can finally unpack my suitcases (maybe even wear what's at the very bottom of them). To a place where I can make people take off their shoes when they visit because it's my place. Oh and I so dearly look forward to the day when I will have a refridgerator of my own, which I will stock with the finest meats & cheeses in the land, plus a variety of tasty treats and of course a carton of orange juice, which while not fresh squeezed will be mine when I want, at less than $4 a glass.

It's not funny, it's not even sophomoric, it's just downright silly, but that's how it goes. Recently I've crossed paths with two different women each with Italian surnames that remotely sound like bakery products. I'd like to introduce you to Miss Foccacia and Miss Bruschetta. And because my mind made this malapropism the first time I met both of them, the doughy misnomer is stuck in my head. Of course I giggle inwardly whenever I speak to either one. This wouldn't be so bad if they 1) were not going to be in my class for the next year or 2) well...she's pretty swell, respectively. So here's to you Mr. Italian Kitchen: manga!

Eat your heart out Atkins! (The late Dr. Robert Atkins, not Garrett Atkins, starting 3B for the Colorodo Rockies. On a sidenote, I hope G. Atkins hits .162 this October. Not only are you playing against my beloved Sox, but I also wasted a first round pick on you this season and sat idly by as you hit an anemic .222 with the occasional pop, but once I traded you away, you turned things around. Thanks douche.)