This morning, my boyfriend left New York to work on a production in swanky Dayton, Ohio, arts capitol of Montgomery County. He will be gone for a month.

Meanwhile, alerted to Rob's extended absence by his vast network of spies, Matt Damon came a-calling. Matt Damon wishes he were my boyfriend and will stop at nothing to achieve this lofty goal. He calls three times a day, showers me with gifts, and offered me a mansion in Beverly Hills.

Cease and desist, Matt Damon! I would rather live in my squalid, minuscule apartment and eat peanut butter sandwiches and hard-boiled eggs three times a day because I have someone who pays all kinds of attention to me, would rather be nibbled to death by raccoons than spend one day apart, and would never dream of leaving enough cookie crumbs in my sheets to sustain a family of Keebler elves.

Stop laughing, Matt Damon! I do not care what your vast network of spies tells you. Ignore those meddling Keebler elves. I--

All right, all right, even I do not believe me for a moment.

Um . . . a mansion, you say?