Quail in Rose Petal Sauce was the first really bad sign.

I am in the midst of a very delightful book, called "Julie & Julia : My Year of Cooking Dangerously" by Julie Powell. It's a non-fictional account of Julie Powell's project to make all five hundred and something recipe's of Julia Childs' from Mastering the Art of French Cooking, Vol 1. Which is referred to ask "MtAoFC" in the book. It's definitely not just about cooking. I find myself laughing out loud and pulling for poor Julie as she convinces herself to eat eggs, contemplates her ticking biological clock and scoops black shit out of her bathroom taps in her crappy New York loft where she lives with her husband and old high school sweetheart, Eric. Everyone should read this book. It has the pacing and feel of one of those diary type books but much wittier and less dumb. A lot of this book is the story of a blog, which is fun to read, especially for a blogger and bleader (read the book to find out) such as myself.

So, I'm sorry for the blog silence. I'm going to try to stop that. Most recently, I was in Cuba for a week, which is a terrible excuse except that it's a perfect excuse as the internet cost money and who the hell really wants to be on the internet when they can be hanging out in their wonderful resort by the ocean, sipping Cuba Libres or Mojitos or whatever while procuring a marvelous tan to bring home to Canada. Exactly.

I will be using Cuba material for a while, as there was a lot of good stuff to blog about. Stay tuned for such wonderful stories as "The Highlighted Couple" and "How you know you're in communist Cuba" and "My week hanging out with Hip Young Moderns". But that is not for tonight.

Tonight, dear bleaders I have other news to share. (Ok, ok, bleaders = blog readers. I stole it from Julie Powell.) Another blog silence reason is due to The Boy. I have contemplated giving The Boy a nickname, to be like one of those bloggers who protect their anonymity with codewords. But I am not such a blogger, and see little reason to refer to The Boy as anything except his real name: Aidan. (Another blogger recently came to the novel conclusion of using her former "paramour"'s real name. I say the nicknames add a nice air of mystery.)

Most of you know about Aidan. I could hardly keep quiet about it, I know. But a new relationship is one of those things that is so hard to keep quiet about, especially for me, since I talk about Everything to Everyone (/Anyone who will listen). It's one of the perks of my extrovertedness. And something like this... I can't and don't want to keep it on the downlow. So.

His name is Aidan. He's in my drama class. We've both liked each other for a while, but both being the partial cynics we are, we tried to push it away and convince ourselves that "He/She could never like me." But somehow... we did. And do. And it just came together like magic... Ok, ok, I'm sounding sappy, but it's so true. The way everything just fit together. We'll see how this continues to unfold, but I have semi-cautious high hopes. He makes me very happy, and he tells me I'm beautiful, among other things. This would make any girl happy, and I must say, I am no different.