i went to school in canada, living in a beautiful old home as opposed to just a dormitory. the subjects i studied were varied, but forgettable. what i do remember is the kinds of things i did in my beautiful old home. i made the bed neatly, tucking in the corners of the sheets. i created tasty dinners in the sunny, oversized kitchen. i pounded away at my typewriter in the den, working on my memoirs. i had the dean of students over for tea. "i'd like to attend this school again next semester," i told him, "and, of course, stay in this house."

the dean of students looked strangely like dean cain. in my head, i called him "the dean of students cain." he didn't like my tea; i noticed him pouring it out behind the sofa when i turned to butter a croissant. "why do you really want to stay here?" he asked. "it's certainly not the education you're receiving."

true. in fact, i should have been in class at that moment. intro to... something or other... 101. i shrugged, and he continued, "you could find a house like this in america, you know."

i feared that he lied. "but how can you be so sure?" i asked. "and how will i move the stove? it's heavy as sin."

"that stove belongs to the owners of this house," he said uncomfortably. "you're just a renter."

then the dean of students cain asked, "and why aren't you wearing any pants?" i looked down, saw my bare thighs, and quickly grew embarrassed.