What a Difference a Year Makes

It's been almost six months since we moved back to Boston. If you told me last September that it was the last fall I'd spend in the 'burbs, I probably would have kissed you and offered to make you two dozen of your favorite cookies and a giant loaf of focaccia. Not that you had any role in our move, but just knowing that we'd in the city again soon would spur some major baking gratitude. 

Brent and I spent the last few months in a whirlwind, under the spell of our favorite city. We crammed in all the food fests and pop-ups we could, finally making a dent in the lists we'd been compiling about places we wanted to try. I don't think I've been to multiple Red Sox games in years, but we went to a few this summer. I've never been to a Patriots game before, and we found ourselves at Gillette one Thursday night. Sports help to reinforce the major truths in my life: the green line is terrible and football games are more fun at the bar.

If you told me last September that we'd now have more litter boxes than cats, I probably would have scowled at you and "dropped" your cookies on the floor. Just kidding, I'd never do that, gross.

Admittedly, we have two litter boxes and two cats, but for a while there Finn was going wherever he pleased and the apartment felt like one 800 square foot litter box. If you're dealing with the aftermath of a big move or upheaval in your cats life and almost at your wits end, get another litter box. Total game changer.

We still haven't made it to the Eire Pub, or caught the trolley home from work, or spent any time on our fire escape. I'm sure we'll get around to all the items on our lists eventually. Except maybe hang out on the fire escape, which is not the urban oasis I once envisioned.