Right now, I could either be writing this with an alive cat or a dead cat, but I will spare you the suspense and tell you that I'm writing it with an alive cat, so that this way you can read the whole thing without wondering if perhaps you need to get up at some point and find a box of tissues and a stronger-than-usual whiskey-based cocktail. You do not. (Not because of this, anyway. Maybe you need those things for your own personal reasons, who am I to judge! Maybe you just have allergies and you're really thirsty.

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So I have this theory about buckets. Wait, wait, don't walk away just yet: it's not really about buckets, it's about life. But it involves buckets. I mean, sort of. Peripherally. Just listen.

I feel like everyone, in their life, has a set of buckets. We mostly all have the same buckets, although they change as we age and our lives expland and contract. My own buckets, at least at the moment, are these: my marriage, my job, my house, my friendships, my family, and my general appearance and well-being.

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I'm pretty sure I'm the most antisocial person you've ever met. Except wait, you haven't met me, because I hate going out. I'm a hermit, a wallflower, a self-diagnosed recluse. Whenever I make plans, I start to resent them five minutes later. My idea of a rockin' Saturday night is me and my couch, other guests optional. And by "other guests," I mean my good friends Ben and Jerry. Man, I love those guys.

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Thank you so much, all of you, for your kind concern about Charlie last week. It's a weird thing to have a critically ill pet: on the one hand, it's horrible and upsetting and---insult to injury!---costing you a whole bunch of money that was earmarked for much more enjoyable things. On the other hand, there's a creeping feeling that your reaction is out of proportion to the situation at hand: it's not a person, is it? It could be so much worse.

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Remember this? Oh, those were the days.

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Quick, think of the most annoying thing you could ever possibly hope not to find in an airport departure lounge. You thought of a xylophone, right? I mean, obviously.

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Bagel, one. Purchased from a bagel shop in what I have affectionately come to refer as "my old neighborhood," given that I stayed in a hotel there for a week back in January. Got lost on the way to find it, walked ten blocks out of my way, wished I hadn't just thrown a sweater on over my pajamas and had maybe also included some supportive undergarments or something.

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Some essential part of me has been forever shattered upon finding out, firsthand, that Paul Simon is only 5"2. He's teeny! He's tiny! You want to scoop him up and put him in your pocket! If I were to stand back to back with Paul Simon---let us briefly pause here and imagine a scenario where this would feasibly take place---I would, at five feet and six inches, tower over him. You do not want to tower over your beloved musical icons, I think. There's something really wrong about it.

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Guess where I am! You'll never guess! Let me give you a hint!

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Let me be the first to say that I was not that interested in the Royal Wedding. Until I found out I'd be in London for it, I treated it with nothing more than a shrug and an eyeroll. If I'd been back in San Francisco, I probably wouldn't even have woken up early to watch, that's how unbothered I was. Even when I found out I'd be coming over for it,  I didn't really get that excited.

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