Darting Around Town In A "Riddler" Outfit

Like my cat, Nigel, who devours his cat chow without chewing, I swallow things whole: statistics, folded inserts delineating life threatening side effects, gulps of Reisling, promises, lies, ill-fated relationships, buttery praise, emergency preparedness plans, and the evening news.

Things consume me, and on a good day, I would say that I'm passionate, and on a bad one, I'd call myself obsessive. And I sort of like that, too . . . smirk at the idea that some things burrow into the landscape of my mind and take root, carving out secure and shaded homes. But it's when I'm blindsided, or afterward, lamenting lost hours, that I wonder if I should have taken my time a bit--focused, noticed, nibbled. Small bites, Cate, not gulps.

It's in the question asking, I think. In the effort to not always be impulsive. To accumulate information and sort through it before making a decision. Because the sky might be blue right now--and that's real nice to notice--but what does that really mean? Does it mean that I can leave the shoes out on the back porch, or that I should pack up the boys and take them over to the community pool for a swim? What if the clouds unfurl into soft, wispy letters that spell out a recipe for coffee-infused barbecue sauce? Would I write it down? Would I trust the ingredients? Would I make it to slather on some ribs for the Fourth of July, or would it taste better on white meat chicken? And what would I make with it? Fresh broccoli? Who says that fresh is better than frozen, and why do I believe that if someone says it, it must be true? And even if it is true, maybe that's just somebody else's reality, not necessarily my own; isn't it my right, if not my obligation, to stand firm on what I believe, yet remain malleable enough to listen and consider and decide?

Years ago, a friend and I had gone out for an expensive dinner together. At her insistence, we ordered caviar. It was expensive. My friend told me that she believed that caviar, like good wine and good olive oil, was the height of sophistication. I told her that I thought it tasted nasty. She threw back her head and laughed and said, "It's an acquired taste, Cathie. You'll get used to it."

You'll get used to it . . . or what? You won't be sophisticated? She paid for her "sophisticated" portion of our meal with her nearly maxed out Mastercard, as I thought to myself, wouldn't it have been more sophisticated to have made something we could've afforded at home (i.e. Hamburger Helper)?

Apparently, spending money equals sophistication. And good taste. Not having money. Just spending it.

The problem is that I eventually accepted this as the truth, just as I have accepted, at various times, that traveling, tans, goat cheese, limo rides, undercooked meats, designer handbags, and luxury cars all equal sophistication. I never thought to ask why . . .

There aren't always answers, but there are certainly always questions.

I'm obviously reading Erica Jong again, and although I don't really like her, I love her writing and I admire the strength in her convictions. She makes me question everything, and I flip through the pages, pausing to scribble down my own thoughts. Working on developing a philosophy as though I were sludging through a muddy proof in algebra.

I have not been asking questions for awhile. I've learned, somewhere on this journey, to notice the big picture and all of its details. But I've forgotten to ask any questions, even the easy ones.

And I think that I do that because I believe that I don't count. Who cares that I'm confused. Who cares that I don't understand. Who cares that I've realized that actions don't match words. Who cares that lies are offered like facts carved into a headstone. Who cares that I'd like some definitions, some clarification.

Well, I guess, I do. I care. And maybe that caring, that puffing myself up, just a bit, is the first step.

If you see someone darting around town in a Riddler outfit, asking questions, don't panic.

It's just me.

Sunday Scribblings: Music

We're watching Top Gun late tonight, and I'm transported, back to 1987 when this movie came to video and I watched it again and again with my best friend, Jennifer, in her parent's family room.

With our teased-bang, stirrup pant style, we rented this movie, among others, reveling in the "boys," reveling in the music, believing that one day, only an arm stretch away, our own life movements would occur against a sexy soundtrack, that a wholesome guy in a uniform might serenade us with "You've Lost That Lovin' Feelin'" in a smoky club.

Jennifer's brother and one of his friends were going to college to be pilots. Commercial pilots. Much different than the flyboys at Miramar, racing motorcycles along long stretches of desert highway after a day of racing fighter jets in a cloudless sky. They slapped hands the way Maverick and Goose did during the volleyball game, and Jennifer and I were just uncool enough to think that that was cool. We practiced the slap; we never got it. Jennifer's brother drove a jeep. We begged him for rides downtown. He dropped us off behind McDonald's, his mirrored sunglasses glinting in the dusky light. We wanted him to be Tom Cruise even more than he did.

The theme of the prom that I attended in 1987 was "Take My Breath Away," and now, when I hear that song, I am back in my little paneled bedroom, tugging a pink Gunne Sax strapless dress up over my boobs as I waited for my date to arrive (white tux). I felt breathless then, and I feel breathless again with the weight of memory.

I watch this movie now and I tell Lou these stories. I pause to scrutinize the volleyball scene, then I marvel at how cute Meg Ryan was with short hair. I still get excited when Kenny Loggins sings "Danger Zone" as the F-14's race, and I still cry when Goose's broken body falls into the ocean.

That's what music does. It makes you long for the future, and once the years finally pass, it carries you back again. It inspires you to choreograph your life, with soft movements and wide-open leaps. A quick fire two-step, a funky disco hustle, but also a graceful, memory-filled waltz.

____________
To read more Sunday Scribblings or submit one of your own (please do!), click here.

Confetti

I have nothing to offer. Sometimes, there are bright flashes, vivid ideas that dance in my mind, but when I go to commit them to paper, to the screen, I think what's the point? Musings, like ticker tape, that fall flat. Litter the world. Magic, for a second, then debris.

I'm really not feeling pessimistic. I'm just busy fueling. Tentatively dipping toes into the water, accepting its temperature, trying not to feel the urge to make things different. Reserving judgment with a willingness to experiment, experience. I've been enjoying the activities that I have chosen in the past week--immersing myself in them, feeling the weight of the tide knock against me. I stand firm, grounded, yet loose enough that I can bob with the current. One night, I try new dishes at dinner; the next day, I feed the children chicken nuggets and I fast. I attempt to meditate and finally snap a photograph of the swirl of confetti that dances through my mind; I can appreciate the colors without allowing them to rain on me. I take a different route downtown, and I notice the stone carvings that line the tops of many of the buildings, the reflections in tall plate glass windows, the smells of pretzels and gasolines, curry and exhaust. I feel James' warm, damp hand pressed against my own; everything else falls away.

There was a storm last night, and there are branches on the ground, leaves in the gutters. Plastic garbage bags like tumbleweeds rolling down the sidewalk. Petals knocked off of Gerbera Daisies and blown across our concrete patio.

More confetti, only this time, not in my mind.

Happy Father's Day

Today, we delight in a Red Rider Wagon full of things that make me dream of fathers--shiny items and rusty ones, new technology and tarnished flea market finds:

Father of The Bride (the "old" version, on AMC this afternoon, where Spencer Tracy gets drunk and passes out while meeting his daughter's future in-laws);

Napoleon Dynamite sticky notes from Target (a gift for my boys' dad, who taught Mac how to pump on a swing yesterday, and treated everyone to donuts at the bagel shop downtown this morning; now that I think about it, Napoleon's father was suspiciously absent throughout this film--hmmmmm?);

Ferris Bueller's Day Off (also on cable this afternoon, which my dad humored me by watching when I was 15, and where Cameron has to explain to his dad that he crashed the man's expensive sport's car through the glass wall of the garage);

Father's Day dinner in the backyard instead of the original plan to eat out (spinach salad, stuffed portobello mushroom caps, steamed broccoli, brown sugar carrots, baby potatoes with rosemary, steaks and hamburgers on the grill--yum!);

Lou's cologne (Paul Sebastian, which makes me passionate-crazy; cologne after a shower always reminds me of the Old Spice my dad used to wear when I was a kid and the Old Spice commercial from the 1970s where the sailor arrives home from a jaunt at sea to a wife and son--both wearing awesome fisherman knit sweaters--who practically tackle him);

Gerbera Daisies that Lou grew outside, in terra cotta pots (a few of which have been cut and now adorn the table);

the father in my Sims 2 legacy challenge game who helps his kids with homework but carries on and weeps after changng the baby's diaper;

and this poem, with its references to motorcycles, which I sent to my dad ("Thanks, Kid, for the 'saying.'"):

The rough road of life,
he travels fierce on gold wings,
family in his pocket.

I've been blessed in the "father" department. My dad is a good man, sometimes impatient, often stubborn, but always full of love. My husband is an amazing dad who relishes every second (alright, most of them) with our boys.

Happy Father's Day!

Poetry Thursday: "In Crepe Paper" by Imelda Maguire

For Poetry Thursday this week, I chose a poem by Imelda Maguire, called "In Crepe Paper."

It is my favorite poem, ever.

I will not do this poet--my friend Imelda--or her poem justice. I know it. Because I'm too emotionally invested in the work, and when I feel that way, my descriptions are smothered with sentimentality. I'm like a first grader who has just read a brilliant picture book and struggles to explain what it meant to me ("It was really good. It was super cool. I liked it because the colors were bright and it made me feel happy."). Stunned by the impact. Joyfully awkward. Dazed. And breathless.

I chisel at the surface, trying to convey the emotions that Imelda's passages draw out, and I create a crumbly mess--like using a butter knife to cut into a solid chocolate Easter egg. When you read Imelda's poetry, her gentle voice fills your insides. You become a container for the thoughts and ideas you've just read, and you hold tight to your feelings because it is a privilege to be awestruck, and you had forgotten that you could have that reaction to something, and you want to keep on feeling that way for just a little while longer.

Imelda's book, "Shout If You Want Me To Sing" is available through Amazon.co.uk. It was the smartest purchase I made this year, this lovely volume that is thin enough to be wedged into a purse, yet bursting with language and ideas. This book has traveled with me to Manhattan and Pennsylvania, but also to the grocery store, the park, and the local Mexican resaurant with the terrace downtown. We enjoy cocktails together, this book and I, in the backyard at dusk. Many of my friends lament that they feel worn from my neediness, and this book, now with its creased binding and folded pages, feels no differently. Yet it doesn't complain.

I share this poem, my favorite, with Imelda's permission. It makes me want to be a better mother, reminds me of the power of words and of the reciprocal nature of kindness.

In Crepe Paper
by Imelda Maguire

Because there was a rush of Yes
into the mind of the teacher and
because the Yes became a sound

Yes, she said, Yes, to the child at last
because he finally heard the Yes,
he carried it home like a bright yellow flower,

a big one with petals made of sunlight
to a mother who was waiting for a Yes,
because the word was carried in

in the mouth of her heartchild, that Yes
became the answer, the chant, the only
word in her day-long litany.

Yes, Yes, Yes

c. 2004, Summer Palace Press
__________
To read other poetry or share a poem of your own, please visit Poetry Thursday.

One Deep Breath--"Moonstruck"

The Midnight Cafeteria

Edible, the moon
is sharp cheese or velvet broth.
Soft hope, crisp wrapper.


To read other haikus or to offer one of your own (this week's topic is "moonstruck"), please visit One Deep Breath.

Lesson Plans

Immediately, today, I thought that I'd like to catch my intentions and house them in a Mason Jar--dent holes into the metal lid to keep hope alive. And then, as the day would progress (and with that, the weight of obligation, responsibility, and quick reflexes), I could twist open the jar, cup plans into the palm of my hand, and release them, like little lightning bugs illuminating the way with their enthusiasm.

Intention, to me, is like the ramshackle farmhouse that a family buys, insisting that within a year, they'll have turned it into a showplace. Intention, to me, are the stacks of paint cans, rollers, and drop clothes, jumbled like sculpture, into a corner, while the walls continue their patient tribute to taupe (aka dirt).

Intention is what I am full of on this first official day of Summer vacation.

So, I have it scripted: the timeline, the stations, the back-up plans.

I won't bore you with details, but we have two walks scheduled, a K'Nex center (both "original creations" and "guide-book models").

We also have Art and Music Appreciation (music appreciation would be me, turning on the cable radio to a certain type of music station--I'm thinking R & B for today--while the boys continue to throw Matchbox cars at each other). Art Appreciation is the re-reading of this book, which we love--Vincent Van Gogh: Sunflowers and Swirly Stars--brilliant, funny, and a teensy bit graphic ("One day, Vincent went a little crazy and cut off part of his ear. He gave it to a woman as a present.")

We have physical fitness, which breaks down into me, hauling my book, "Not Buying It: My Year Without Shopping" by Judith Levine, and a lawn chair over to our swingset/fort, and spotting each child as they leap from higher and higher points off of the sliding board (hey, it's their Mt. Everest).

Finally, we have Quiet Time (Remember this? Remember this from kindergarten, when you had to put your head down on the table because the teacher felt you were overwhelmed, but it was really SHE who was overwhelmed, and when your head was down, you had nothing better to do than lick your own forearm or the table, both of which tasted oddly of sour milk?), which equates to a video in the mid-afternoon while Mom reads blogs or plays The Sims 2.

I've done this--this planning--in the past and it often lasts about three days. At some point, I grow agitated and throw the boys into the car. We head to the mall where we pace in the air conditioning (after lunch at Chick-Fil-A, of course).

However, this year, the first day of Summer vacation correlates with our new financial plan--"Our Month Without Spending" (see aforementioned book)--so I believe that any trips to a mall would be cruel. And Chick-Fil-A would be a "want," not a "need," right?

Let's see where intention takes me today. I sometimes forget that it gets a little moody when it's locked up in a jar.

Sunday Scribblings: My Mystery

I ascribe to the Woody Allen School of Hypochondria; in fact, I am currently enrolled in the Master's program. Ever since having my children, I take special interest in anything that could possibly be described as a symptom or ailment. At the Woody Allen School, we don't need a library; we have Google and the Merck Manual to meet all of our research needs.

Which brings me to my mystery: the mystery of tomorrow. Recently diagnosed with Benign Fasciculations (y'know how your eye sometimes twitches? well, these are twitches that occur all over the body--can be intermittent, can be constant), I am diligent in worrying about the future. Twitches are one thing, but if they are symptoms of a terrible, neuromuscular wasting disease--well, that's a whole different ballgame.

This is what comes to mind, in my dusty whirlwind of panic: If something were to happen to me, who would come into my house and clean it out? Who would sort through my piles, figure out which papers are disposable and which ones are "records?" Who would know to print all of the photos off of the harddrive and paste them in albums for the boys? Who would realize that the Belleek china was good stuff, not just 50 cent yard sale junk?

All just fancy costuming for the Big Question: Who would take care of my children?

I have a good husband, an excellent one. I do not say, "I'm lucky because he gives the boys baths, brushes their teeth, reads them stories." Like Leah Remini recently said in an article (she was talking about husbands being given "points" for being faithful or for being good fathers), "That would be like saying, 'Oh, I got lucky! I got a house with a bathroom and functional plumbing!'" My husband is an amazing father, but there is a balance between us--a softness that he has when I am strict, a hardness that he has, when I am teary and sentimental. I cringe at the sight of roughhousing while he encourages it. I teach our boys how to save money, and he teaches them how to find bargains and spend it.

It all comes down to this: I like our team; I don't want to be traded to another, esp. one that's not of this Earth. I want to dig my feet into the ground and keep batting.

So, the neurologist says, "You look great. Come back in three months so we can see if there are any changes" and I feel momentarily relieved, but then immediately start to wonder: okay, so no neuromuscular diseases, but what if I've got cancer? What if I'm deluding myself into believing that I'm healthy and the last laugh is on me? Or what if I smash my car up on the way home? Hahaha. Yeah, you think you're safe, but what a crock."

And thus begins the routine of daily checks at home: assess the bulkiness of my calf muscles to ensure that they aren't wasting, monitor twitches (widespread, localized), test strength by balancing on one foot with other leg hyper-extended (ballerina pose) or picking up heavy textbooks (Merck Manual?) with one hand. Add mole checking to the routine. Have Xanax in purse at all times for long car trips or flights.

The fasciculations aren't crippling me. My own mind is.

But what I often neglect to realize is that I'm missing the game. I'm so busy worrying about the draft, I forget to concentrate on the graceful toss of the ball, the comaraderie of the huddle, the glory of the teamwork (regardless of whether or not the game is won).

So, the mystery, which is whether or not I'm going to stay healthy, is one hundred percent irrelevant. I don't want to know. I think I do, but I don't. Because there are no sure things. I want to learn to accept that today, I am able to click at a keyboard, draw liner across my lips, steer a car, push a grocery cart, inspect cake mix, stir fresh basil into sauce, flip the pages of a book, squeeze my husband's hand, and stroke my sons' hair.

The mystery has changed.

The questions to myself now are: are you going to stop worrying about things that aren't within your control? are you going to stop speculating? are you going to start living in the moment? and are you going to do with it with appreciation and grace?

That, that's a mystery I'd like to solve.
____________

To read more "mysteries," visit Sunday Scribblings by clicking here.

Poetry Thursday: MYOB

The Poetry Thursday assignment this week was to eavesdrop a little (oh, how I wish we'd had assignments like that in school; maybe I would've loved poetry back then, too). Eavesdropping is not new to me: I always listen in, and if possible, figure out a way to ask questions. I'm often called nosey. I don't care. I'm stocking up material for stories. Besides, as the little sister in Judy Blume's book, "It's Not The End Of The World," used to say, "The person who asks the most learns the most." I agree.

My poem is the conversation that occurred between a man and his daughter, a girl about 14, with stooped shoulders, greasy hair, and a kind face. I gathered that the man was divorced from the girl's mother and this was his weekly date-night with his daughter. She would not look at her dad, a little guy who thumped his fork against the table with nervous agitation. Instead, she busied herself with the menu, played with the table-cloth, shook Equal packets, giggled nervously. The father pretended like he was joking, but, with each sentence, he talked louder, faster, more belligerent. Somewhere along the line, the girl stopped laughing.
____________

Overheard, Between A Divorced Father and His Teen-Age Daughter
a.k.a. Not Talking Can Be Good, Too

Well, what are you gonna order?
Don't be like your mother.
You're just like you're mother.
Have anything you want.
You want a quesadilla?
You want some soup?
They've got cheesey-broccoli.
Don't worry about the price.
Next time, I'm gonna leave you home.
You're just like you're mother.
I can't stand that.
What are you gonna order?
Aren't you worried about your weight?
Is your mother still fat?
Are you sure that's what you want?
I don't give a damn what you get.
Well?
C'mon.
Order.

To read other poems, click here to visit the Poetry Thursday website.

Tagged

Tagged by Susan! Love this meme. Have seen it in many places and was eager for a chance to participate. Yayyyy!

accent: flat and boring; used to think that I talked normal, like Tom Brokaw; now, the sound of my own voice is either shrill or lifeless. Would love an Irish accent (nod to me mother) or a Southern one. Hell, I like any accent (except my own flat and boring one)

booze: Sure. I'll take a Bud Light. Or a couple. Or a small family of beers. Or a glass of Reisling (but just one--I get a headache if I have any more than that). When I was younger, "snakebites" were my shot of choice; I haven't had a "snakebite" in years and can no longer stomach the thought. Oh, and I hate a fruity drink or a margarita.

chore I hate: all of them, unless I'm in the right mood; then, I like chores, feel ambitious. Favorite chore is vacuuming or cleaning the sink--makes me puffed up with my own accomplishment. And I looooove vacuuming and washing my car!

dogs/cats: Two dogs: Spot (mutt) and Alice (miniature pinscher); two cats: Spike and Nigel

essential electronics: laptop, Tivo (does that count?); telephone

favorite perfume/cologne: Fendi (since sophomore year of college)

gold/silver: silver, white gold, or (I'm drooling here) platinum; if it has a diamond wedged into it, I'll wear it.

hometown: Edinboro, PA (nice, little college town with a lake; a good place to grow up and to visit)

insomnia: sometimes, but that's what books are for

job title: Why do we need labels? I'm tempted to say "writer" just because I can be defiant like that.

kids: two lovely, energetic little guys

living arrangements: row house that lacks closet space

most admired trait: passion and enthusiasm (you either like me or think that I'm a dingbat)

number of sexual partners: Oh, I'd like to tell you. Really. But then, I'd have to kill you, so it's just not worth it :) (I hope to God no one has used that response--I hate copying and that one came to me almost too easily)

overnight hospital stays: Both times my boys were born; with my littlest guy, I begged the doctor to let us out early; I couldn't handle the woman with whom I shared the room.

phobia: sticky things like gum on the sidewalk, transportation (used to be just planes, now everything is suspect, except for trains), an asteroid hitting the Earth and knocking us into oblivion (a bit hesitant to share that one, lest you think that I'm a kook)

quote:

"The one thing that doesn't abide by majority rule is a person's conscience." Harper Lee-To Kill A Mockingbird

religion: A nice relationship with God, one of His and my own creation. We have coffee and we talk. I tend to use His name in vain quite often, however; am working on this!

siblings: None. But I have a few soul sisters walking around in this world!

time I usually wake up: 7:00 am

unusual talent: None. Oh, wait--I'm super cool about getting lost and guessing my way to my destination. Does that not count?

vegetable I refuse to eat: Brussel sprouts. One time when I was about four, my mother made them for dinner; when she turned her back, I hid all 5 of them in a wicker basket. She found them immediately (C'mon--kid won't eat brussel sprouts for 45 minutes, bawls at the prospect, then suddenly, they're gone. My mother's no fool!).

worst habit: Waaaaaayyyyyy too much time on computer

x-rays: Can't remember. Dental?

yummy foods I make: Potato-leek soup; Vegetable barley soup; whole grain pasta with a spicy, homemade sauce; bruschetta; pot roast; home-made, grown-up macaroni and cheese; stuffed mushrooms; twiced-baked mashed potatoes; many different kinds of muffins

zodiac sign: Aries; when I was younger, I practically worshipped at the altar of Sydney Omarr. Now, I rarely read my horoscope (but I believe . . .)

Thanks for the tag, Susan. And I tag anyone who is interested in playing!

One Deep Breath--Skyscraper: A Haiku

No nature walk for me so far this week, though one would have probably done me good. I left the house briefly last night, to tutor. It about killed me. When I came home, Lou and I had a drink at the patio table; I spritzed Off on him ("That's enough," he said) and watched the citronella candle flicker.

It's hard for me to disrupt my routine; it takes me days to find a rhythm again. I've been obsessed with writing a haiku for Susan and Jennifer's new blog, One Deep Breath. It was much harder than I thought. The assignment this week was the aforementioned nature walk, then haiku and/or photographs. Being housebound (self-imposed, I realize), I drew inspiration from my weekend trip to Manhattan. I know that haikus are supposed to involve nature, but to me, skyscrapers within a city are natural, and so often, beautifully detailed, sleek and shiny, magnificent.

Skyscraper: A Haiku

Our concrete mountains
scaled by pressing a button.
Crowded peak, then sky.

To read other haikus or to submit one of your own, visit One Deep Breath. It is a lovely site, both elegant and refreshing!

Playing "Catch Up" On A Broken Guitar

I don't know much about musical instruments, but I'm a broken guitar today if there ever was one. My throat is raw, so the sounds that I emit are wrong notes. I don't know if strings are supposed to be loose or stiff--but today, I'm a broken string, a string on the verge of snapping: awkward, out of practice, twangy-y.

My mom was here last week and we spent it in a whirlwind: shopping, walks downtown, cooking delicious meals, taking a one-day bus trip to Manhattan, ambling around the Frederick Festival of Arts, and celebrating our littlest guy's birthday (he's three today; YAYYYY!).

Our trip to Manhattan was a highlight. We strut through the city like we owned it, splashing through dirty puddles (it rained for most of the day), pushing in and out of quirky shops, and upscale ones, too. The hell with it; they were all upscale: fancy expensive yarns, billowy skirts, embroidered cardigans, beaded necklaces, silver earrings, flaaaaat shoes, vintage toy cars, sculptures, bowler hats. We walked the length of Broadway from 35th Street, ending up in Greenwich Village, then darting over to SoHo. We backtracked through the Village to Little Italy, where I hailed a cab (first try!) and we zoomed back up a zillion blocks to 82nd Street (lotta traffic, lotta road rage from our driver who muttered "fucking idiots, fucking people" constantly) and The Met. We were only able to spend a bit of time at the Met because we needed to get back to Macy's, where the bus was picking us up to take us back to Maryland ("Crabcakes and football, that's what Maryland does!"). I bought my children Willliam hats, recorders, and art books (M got Vincent Van Gogh, J got Matisse). I bought Lou two art books and myself a Vincent Van Gogh bookmarkand this guy: The Lives of the Muses : Nine Women & the Artists They Inspired by Francine Prose.

We ate, too: at The Cellar Bar and Grill (basement of Macy's) and The Silver Spurs Diner (Village).

Oh, and our busdriver was crazy. His name was Bill and he was about 80 years old. He drove confidently, zipping through the Lincoln Tunnel, rumbling over bridges, edging other cars off of the road while everyone was jockeying for an exit ramp. We watched The Princess Diaries II on the bus and I was appalled by the whole thing--stupid plot, stupid message. A woman has no business getting married if she's gonna have children and teenagers at her bachelorette party, then make everyone participate in an activity like mattress surfing (alright, I can mayyyyybe see "mattress surfing," but only if there were beer, margaritas, and injuries involved).

I have much to catch up on (blog reading, emails, a meme from Susan, morning pages). I will be holed up in my quiet, air-conditioned house today, aloe slathered on my ridiculous sunburn, chain-drinking coffee to soothe my raw throat.

Hope that you all had a great weekend.

Here's to a happy week ahead!