Why does he have to sing every time he sees me? ~ Ramona Quimby

This weekend I went to Scholars Boston and I ate beef tongue sliders.

They were chewy.

I kept telling myself, "Dfest...it is just meat. You love meat. You will love this."

Except I didn't.

And all I could think about was when Ramona and her sister had to eat tongue.

Do you remember?

And what about the time Ramona cracked the egg on her head? Ramona is totally in the wolfpack.

I couldn't find the exact clip on youtube, but I did find the opening credits.

And these are the days that never end.

Twenty some-odd years ago, on this very day, at this very minute (high noon) one of my very bests was born. Happy Birthday, Kate!

Eight years ago, in a small common room on the Wellesley campus, I met Kate for the first time. We were preparing to serve on the same res life staff, and we were being forced to participate in a terrible ice-breaker. To be honest, I can't remember the rules or objective of this particular ice-breaker, but they are all terrible, aren't they? Anyway, I don't remember the game. I don't remember what I said. I don't remember what anyone else said. I only remember that Kate told a story about a bench. A very famous bench in her hometown of Hanover. It was random. And it was funny. It made me laugh. And then we were friends.

That October, the Sox almost went to the World Series. During that ALCS series, I learned to hate Joe Buck and mock Jeter's love of wine coolers. I learned to love Baseball. Kate taught me to love it. Night after night, we watched them cowboy up, and then we watched with the band of idiots as it all went downhill with Grady Little's controversial decision. We were so mad. (Boston hasn't forgotten, Mr. Little.)

In 2004, I graduated Wellesley. My parents threw me a party and there was a dj. Kate and I belted out the lyrics to Meatloaf and we forced people to dance with us when Kevin Little's song took over the speaker. He was a one-hit wonder so I'm pretty sure you know the song I'm talking about. That song was so effing fantastic. It still is. (The dance floor thanks you, Mr. Little.)



In 2006, Kate graduated Wellesley. And moved to Boston. Praise Jesus.

Last year, Kate and I joked about starting a blog. Cause we had shit to say.

In 2011...yesterday in fact, Kate and I realized that we were both going to marry DJs. She's going to wed Mr. Clinton Sparks, while I plan to be Mrs. Pauly D...so long as he passes std tests...twice. And if we can't marry them, at the very least they should spin at our weddings to other men.

And so in honor of our years of friendship, and many many more years to come, and Kate's birthday, it seems only fitting that I welcome a very special musician to the wolfpack, Meatloaf.

I don't think Meatloaf's membership requires much explanation. Instead of telling you about this bat out of hell, I'll let one of his most ahhhmazing songs speak on his behalf instead.

Like so many others, you might think the song is about anal sex. But it is not. Meatloaf says so. And he's in the pack now, so I take him at his word. If you still have doubts, this diagram might help.



Yep, I'm sure that cleared things up for ya.

The video might be weird and creepy, but the piano and motorcycle and chandelier are just plain awesome and beautiful and badass. Just like Kate.

Enjoy. And Happy Birthday to Kate! I love you times 1 billion.




xoxo, wildcat.