In some DC neighborhoods, discontinued call boxes have been refurbished with fun art or dioramas in them, but our area, being less funky than those neighborhoods, include instead interesting facts of local historical relevance. The one by our house talked about a would-be assassin who died in a tree in our neighborhood (by his own folly, I believe).

Well, this morning, Rudi and I were racewalking to Krispy Kreme when I noticed something sitting in ours. (Our call box; not our tree!) I stopped to investigate and was surprised to discover that it was something of mine!

The butterfly pin has been pinned to my jean jacket for months, but apparently earlier this week (Tuesday or Wednesday, I’d have to guess), it must have popped off — possibly catching on the strap of my bag.

The pin is a nice one — I get compliments whenever I wear it — so I was particularly surprised when it was just sitting there. Not only had the person who found it not taken it, but neither had anyone else who passed it by in the 2-3 days since I’d dropped it.

I love my urban neighbors.

My folks have sold their co-op and spent the last three days down here packing up the rest of their belongings. This marks the formal end of their 14-year bi-state existence and I am remarkably happy for them that they finally get to exist in just one place.

Mind you, they still need to drive back up to Connecticut and to unload the car and the truck. But the apartment is empty and the keys have been handed over. Now that they’ve made it past the closing, there is time for closure.

Their time down here was good for them. D.C. afforded them some fantastic opportunities they never would have had if they’d remained in Connecticut all this time. But now I think it’s better for them to have a place where they can spread out and enjoy time with hobbies, home and garden, and each other (and with Gramma, who will move in later this year). I’m sure some concerns exist for them as they embark upon the next stage of their lives, but the journey seems to have been a good one so far, setting a positive example for Josh and me.

I did just want to take a minute to thank Hod, a family friend since I was a little girl, who drove all the way down here just to help Dad with the heavy things. Since I would have been hard-pressed to lift and tote with quite the same good graces Hod approaches life with, I was remarkably grateful for his presence. Thank you.

You ain’t got nothing on Jesus.

Check out “What’s On Jesus’ iPod? / Protest anthems, Zeppelin, gospel, classical and, of course, Nine Inch Nails. And, yes, Jesus does P2P,” a fantastically funny column by Mark Morford of the San Francisco Gate.

(I love the mention of Three Dogs’ Night’s “Joy to the World,” a family favorite growing up.)

I think Dar Williams’ “The Christians and the Pagans” would make the cut.

As would some of the Nields and Roche sisters’ harmonies when they’re right on.

Harry Chapin’s whole collection, but especially “Flowers Are Red” (which may actually have a different title).

I’ll think of more, I’m sure. I’ll let you know if I submit any of them to Mark for his follow-up column.

Tickets for Star Wars: Episode Three — Revenge of the Sith went on sale today at Loews Theatres, and the exciting news in D.C. is that it will be showing at the Uptown.

For those who aren’t familiar with it, the Uptown is an old-fashioned one-screen theater, complete with balcony, curved screen, and velvet curtain. Moviegoers get very grumpy when the best films don’t show there and The Interpretor had opened there recently, so we were a little concerned.

So as soon as I discovered SWIII would be showing there, Rudi snapped up tickets. We’ve been to blockbusters there early in their run before, so we will be better prepared this time — we’re planning a picnic to eat on the sidewalk lining Connecticut Avenue. Any Star Wars-appropriate fare we should consider? We’ll have some time, since the show starts at 7 p.m., and we’ll be heading there straight from work.

In addition to having tickets in hand for Star Wars, we also have our tickets for The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy for Friday. I haven’t read the Douglas Adams series, but Rudi really loves it and I’m game to go join the party Rudi’s organizing to see it at the Georgetown Loews. I’ll report back here over the weekend about how a non-fan feels about it.

Our neighborhood has a lot of restaurants. Because of that, we also tend to have wild cats (the restaurants leave scraps out for them). Earlier this week, Rudi and I discovered we had kittens a block from the burrow — four of them.

Today, as I was walking back from the wine shop, I happened to glance up as I was passing a neighbor’s house and noticed a cat on the stoop. Looking closer, I realized it wasn’t one cat; it was five cats — the four kittens and their mom.

Mom was standing watching me as I crossed the street to get a closer look. The kittens weren’t paying any attention to me. They were too busy trying to nurse. Eventually the mama cat sat down, which made the kittens happier. And finally she just sort of toppled over to allow the kittens easier access. But she never broke eye contact.

When Rudi went to move the car a little while ago, he saw them back under their regular bush.

How many cats in the hand are five cats in the bush worth? I don’t know, but four kittens nursing on a front stoop are worth quite a bit of enjoyment.

I stumbled across Clare’s site, Three Beautiful Things, last week and it strikes me that if I stopped to write down the things I noticed I might appreciate life just a tad more. So in that vein:

1. Pink flowers — The pink dogwood at the corner of the Moroccan embassy is blooming. Like the magnolia trees three weeks ago, it looks like tons of pink butterflies have alighted on the tree and it makes my walk to the Metro much more pleasant.

2. A cup of tea — I didn’t have time to brew a whole pot of tea this morning and the regular tea bags I have are meant for more than one cup. So I pulled down the tin of Earl Gray tea bags Gramma gave me a while back. It’s been a while since I had a cup of Earl Gray and I had forgotten how much I enjoy a well-made blend. Some blends incorporate too much bergamot, but this one was just right.

3. A chilly cat — Jeremiah, our black-and-white cat, has been on the peck recently and has been a bloody pain in the neck, blocking our other two cats’ ways, chasing after them, and just generally tearing up the place. But at night he curls up on us, balanced on both our hips. And in the morning, he is generally curled up next to my stomach. And this morning, when I needed to be getting up from my chair and getting ready for work, he came and sat on my lap and gave me such a look that I had to sit for a few more minutes just to not disrupt his nap.

My friend Phillip is heading to Afghanistan for a month later this week, so he invited some folks over for beers last night. So instead of going empty-handed, I decided this was one of those occasions which demanded bringing a goodie.

For those who know me, you know my cooking skills are tenuous, at best. But I have burned rice much more recently than brownies, so I thought a dessert was a safe bet. And after staring at the cookbook my grandmother made for me for Christmas ’02 at my request, I decided her mint stick recipe was the fastest option I had.

I won’t give up the family recipe (some things must remain sacred, y’know), but sufficed to say I’m sure Gramma has never used cream that had an expiration date of 3+ months earlier in any of her recipes. But I was raised in a household that believed in the sniff test when it comes to dairy products, and the cream passed that test just fine.

And the recipe calls for cooling the dessert in stages. I may have used liberal definitions of “warm” and “cool” in these instances. When the cake didn’t burn my fingers, I figured that it was warm. And to cool it sufficiently for the top layer, I tossed it in the freezer. So while it was cool enough to carry, it was not so cool I wouldn’t have used a trivet if placing it on a good surface.

My mother would have been horrified when Phillip brought out a large spoon to dish out the dessert. Mum feels the whole point of having mint sticks is that they be in stick size and shape — approximately 1″x2″, preferably. I suspect that she prefers this specific size because it means the mint sticks last a lot longer than when you dish out 3″x3″ squares the way Phillip was last night.

But the responses were overwhelmingly positive, particularly when they learned I’d broken out an old family recipe for the first time. So hooray for Gramma and her recipe, for Mum and her ability to make mint sticks last longer than one night, and for me for finally trying to make a dessert entirely from scratch.

I am officially a terrible fantasy baseball coach (25-38-9 in our league scoring). My problem is that I actually envision the players on my team being real live human beings sitting on a bench in my living room. (Can you anthropomorphize real people?) Happily, none of them spit tobacco or sunflower seeds on the carpet.

I don’t want to hurt their feelings by not playing them. I drafted poor Craig Counsell last week and he still hasn’t gotten a chance to get on the field. And I feel bad about that. Really.

I understand fully that it doesn’t make sense and that this is not the way to play fantasy baseball. I recognize that this is a game and that I am supposed to strategize by looking at players’ numbers and only play those who are good.

But I didn’t go into my (free) baseball fantasy league looking to play by the pre-established rules. Sam, our league commissioner, advised only picking a few “hot” players in the pre-draft and letting the computer pick the rest of our players for us based on their numbers. So I deliberately went in and found all the Mets I’ve ever liked, plus a few other non-Mets I like (JT Snow because he picked that kid up at home plate and kept him from getting trampled, Jeff Bagwell because he grew up in Connecticut, Omar Vizquel because he’s Rebs’ favorite player, Bernie Williams because he plays jazz guitar, Livan Hernandez because I felt I should support one of the local guys) and drafted them. Luckily, except for a few players, most people don’t want ex-Mets. I don’t know why. And I’m okay with that.

And sometimes it pays off for me. Fonzie (Edgardo Alfonzo) is tearing up the national league.

And sometimes it doesn’t. But I won’t take John Franco out of the game just because Houston doesn’t use him to my advantage. I like John. I resent the Mets having traded him, after a lifetime with the team. Loyalty should count for something. So I put him on my team.

When I need to add players, however, I have tried to be more judicious by only looking at players who’ve posted good numbers in an area I’m lacking (like batters who don’t strike out or pitchers who throw strikes or someone who closes games on a regular basis). But I do have standards — there’s no way you could pay me to take Armando Benitez after the way he played for the Mets all those years, and except for Mike Hampton, who pitched for the Mets for a while, I refuse to draft Braves.

But I do wish the players I do want would reward me for my approach by hitting grand slams on my watch, as opposed to when I sit them to let someone else get a chance to play (David Wright last week) or when they aren’t supposed to be in the game (Jay Paton only starts against lefties, but Trot Nixon had to go and get thrown out of yesterday’s game…).

Oh well. I get a fantasy team that’s 19 1/2 games out of first place in my league. But I get to run it the way I want to, and no one really cares if I lose big. I know more about baseball and players in general this season (and can name a player on almost every team!).

And hopefully Craig will get into a game this week. In fact, I’ll make that a priority.

On this day in 1898, William S. Porter went to jail for embezzling $5,000 during his time as a bank clerk. During the three years he served, he refined the writing style he is still known for today.

Don’t remember Porter’s work? Think again: he published under a pseudonym. You’ve probably read his clever little tale with the moral of not hawking your most prized possessions as an altruistic gesture because the object of your affection is bound to have no use for the bauble you purchased with the money.

(Thanks to Today in Literature for their heads-up on this item.)

This column from today’s Post, “How the Nats Brought Me Home,” hit home with me.

Unlike the author, I do follow sports. And I really enjoy baseball; I’d like to make it to a game at each of the stadiums sooner or later.

And I have had animated conversations on the Metro with strangers in the past — wearing political buttons will do that. (My commute on Metro is only two stops and lets out in liberal Dupont Circle, so perhaps that accounts for all my political Metro conversations being positive.)

But he’s right. The city has moved to embrace baseball with an enthusiasm that surprised me. And it is a rallying point — something that’s ours. When I get on the Metro late at night to come home and see Nats hats in abundance, I have no qualms about walking up to a stranger and asking what the score was. And coworkers have complimented the new Nationals pennant adorning my office door.

So, let’s go Nats!