Last night, around 7 p.m., TEENY (my beat-up '96 Volvo) and I clunked into downtown Falmouth, where everything looked the same way I had left it late last August.

It was election night, so about fifteen citizens were milling about, brandishing signs to elect "So-and-so for Selectman." Thankfully, my New Hampshire plate informed them that I would be a waste of last-minute convincing, and they left me in peace to walk to the back door of Eight Cousins to meet Carol.

Carol, a former librarian with all the traits to match, is the owner of Eight Cousins, which she started with her parents several years ago. I will be living with her until June, when I can move back in with Robin and Jimmy, where I lived last summer. For the time being, I have ownership of her side living room/library, where I am sleeping on a pull-out couch surrounded by shelves stocked with children's literature and about ten copies of Louisa May Alcott's Eight Cousins -- a book I didn't even know existed, despite having read both Little Women and Jo's Boys. I started reading one copy last night; it is about a thirteen year old girl named Rose, who, as is the case with so many protagonists of the genre, recently lost her father, is now parentless, and must go live with her aunts and Uncle Alec, and be driven crazy by her seven rowdy boy cousins.

As you can tell, last night was rather uneventful, and involved unpacking, talking to Carol, and tasting her freshly-made Swedish Rye.

Because, as coincidence would have it, Carol's maiden name is Borg, and she too is a half-Swede. Oddly enough, she looks eerily like my nana.

But, as I lay in my bed in the complete silence and darkness, I realized that drastic steps must be taken to save me from becoming the crazy cat lady long before my time. This summer will be nice, but I need to make plans to get to the city and meet some people my own age . . .