St. Clare I, the patron saint of television, steps down from her podium on my table and walks over to my laptop. She puts a tiny hand on mine. "Can I talk to you for a second?" I move over the mugs of hot chocolate and clear her a space. "I just...don't you miss St. Clare II?" she asks me.
"Of course I do," I smile.
"Don't do that."
"Don't make the Lorelai face when you talk to me. It's very annoying. All wincey and smiley. I can't take it. And WHAT is with all of the pictures of Johnny Depp all over the table?"
"He's dreamy," I ooze, kicking my slippered feet up on the table and hugging my knees.
"This is incredible. I thought I was doing you a favor but I think I just went too easy on you this year. You've softened, Pamie. You used to bitch along with the rest of them. I don't know what happened. Don't you remember the days of Young Americans, when we stayed up late throwing things and screaming? Don't you remember that? You don't even smoke while you do recaps anymore. It's all different. It's all changed. And I found my Christmas present and opened it already."
"You did? Well, you're just a big poo head, then."
"Stop with the cutesy talk! Jesus. You bought me a training bra, Pamie."
"Well, you're getting older, and things are changing, and you're starting to get some cute little boobies."
"Listen to me. I miss St. Clare II. I thought for sure that we'd have her back by January. I thought for sure this show would bomb because no one would watch it and they'd bring YA back. I was positive. Look, this show is like, 102 on the list. They cancelled The $treet and that show was in the eighties. No one watches your show and it still wins awards and fills this house with that strange smell. What is that smell?"