Lithgow was sipping cocoa in a Harvard Square chocolate shop. I almost smiled and said "Hey, how ya doin'?" as if I knew him well enough to speed dial him while westbound on I-94 and say, "Johnny! Whus up?"

I mistook him for a pal because I confused his image being in my house with his being in my house. I never made that sort of mistake again, which was best, because Harvard attracts celebs like berries draw bears.

A few weeks later, I passed Glenn Close in an alley.

I had no desire to blurt, ala Chris Farley, "Hey, 'member when you cried in the shower in The Big Chill? 'Member that?"

If she had nodded, I would have blurted, "I liked that."

And she might have murmured, "Perv."

Thankfully, I let her pass.

And thankfully, she didn't say to me, "Katie, I won't be ignored!" and then boil my bunny, or lunge at me, as she'd once lunged at Michael Douglas after he'd unzipped and rezipped his naughty bits.

That morning, I merely thought, "You're small."

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