Let the music play on (play on, play on, play on)

Dear AESers,

I love you. I love all of you.

I miss every one of you I didn't get to see.

I started missing each of you who was there as we hugged goodbye.

We all hugged so much. It wasn't enough time. It's never enough time.

I tell people I have spectacular taste in friends, which is true.

But the fact is I lucked into you.

I lucked into moving back to Delhi and walking down Chandragupta Marg, past the big tree with the vultures outside the front gate, and into AES.

I lucked out by walking into 9th and staying through 12th.

Leaving for college broke my heart. I longed every day to be back in Delhi with all of you, back where I felt safe and loved.

I lucked into you at play practice with Mr. Pepperling, on the field with Coach Connor, passing notes in geometry class with Mr. Gupta, and in typing with Mr. Mitroo. I lucked into drinking fresh lime sodas at ACSA and listening to Purple Rain on the boom box.

And 80s dance music, which is my favorite, is irrevocably linked with dancing every single weekend with you. I will always associate Quiet Riot with Matt's house on the compound and Dire Straits with Jason and Lodi Gardens, and how beautiful is that?

I lucked into walking out of science class with Mr. Robbins and diving with you into huge monsoon puddles that had filled up the soccer field in the torrential downpour in between classes. I lucked into spending every weekend with you, often at the Gunghroo or the #1 at the Taj.

I lucked into Jason kindly being willing to drop me home from parties, because my dad deliberately set my curfew half an hour earlier than everyone else's, and I wasn't allowed to take taxis alone.

I lucked into sleeping at your houses and going dancing anyway, whether or not we had to sneak out past sleeping parents, which I still cannot believe we were so bold as to do.

I lucked into the fact that the smells of India are embedded forever in my heart. When I smell specific blends of spices, it is Delhi. When I smell a particular wood fire smell, it is Kashmir.

When I smell jet fuel, it is every runway I ever walked down getting on or off a plan onto the tarmac. The smell makes me ache for a childhood spent on Pan Am, with plates and glasses and real silverware and space to sleep in front of my parents' feet.

There are scents I cannot identify. But when I smell them, in that olfactory Proustian way, I am home in my heart, though Delhi hasn't been my physical home in over 30 years.

Some of you I only overlapped with my first year, or my last. Some of you I didn't even know in Delhi, because you were there before or after me. But we come to reunions, and we meet, and the spark is there.

And this is my good fortune, my privilege.

We were firmly Breakfast Club era, and I remember watching it in the Embassy theater. (They had such good popcorn.)

It was our era, but not our school. At AES, smart was cool. I can't think of a single person we didn't think was cool, because we didn't specifically think in those terms. Everyone could do anything and everything they wanted to.

We were so tight and supportive that we all did sports and theater and went out dancing together and worked hard to get good grades. Some of us were utter basket cases at the same time others may have thought we were princesses.

I learned recently that my astigmatism is the reason I have poor depth perception. Though I made the volleyball team one year, I sucked at softball, basketball, field hockey, and really any sport where you needed to understand where the ball was in relation to yourself.

I could never figure out where the damn ball was.

Cheerleading, it turned out, was for me. In my dreams, I still own those pom poms.

However. When, during the dancing part of the reunion, three of my fellow cheerleaders and I tried to pose for a cheer shot, we discovered we are not the cheerleaders we used to be.

Get up, Kerry. You're the team captain!

We settled for a pyramid. Of sorts.

And let me tell you, I did not know until last Friday night that field hockey and softball are not typical boy sports in the U.S. Who knew? Carter and Boo, they knew. Or anyway, they learned it upon return to the States.

This weekend someone--was it Andy?--said they thought our personalities are pretty well fixed by high school, and I agreed. We are all the same at core. Just older, wiser, kinder, better versions of ourselves.

Yes, we're older. We have conversations on topics unimaginable in high school: caring for our kids, wrinkle cream, and the possibility of freezing that annoying post-baby low belly fat. The sadness of seeing parents decline. The unkindness of perimenopause.

Some of us have kids out of college, while some of us have kids in pre-K. We've married and divorced and changed names. We've moved and switched jobs multiple times. By now, most of us have lived through the trauma of losing a loved one.

We walk around with splinters and shards, invisible to many who haven't known us so long. These only make us shine brighter in our reflected light.

When we gather, we tell and retell stories from high school. It doesn't matter if I've heard them 50 times; I will always long to hear them once more.

Remind me, Greg, that we have known each other since we were four years old. That we have Halloween pictures of each other as adorable children. That you got to be Santa Claus in the preschool pageant where I was the bitterest Mary in existence, because I had to wear my pajamas and a crocheted afghan.

Tell me, tell me not-specifically-named friends, about that time you stole a Russian diplomatic license plate and almost got caught by the police. Tell me again about the time you did get caught.

Tell me, Jason, tell me your memories of us heading over to Claridge's for cocktails after school. Yes, OK, we headed to Claridge's for cocktails. After school. Not often. Because we had play practice, sports practice, both play and sports practices...

Tell me, Russ. Tell me about that plane trip to Pakistan I don't remember, the one where the plane got hit by lightening and you looked over and Paul A. was crossing himself frantically.

Remind me, Chris, about that time you used a magnifying glass and burned tiny holes in my adorable pink terry cloth romper while I was at the pool. I'd give up a million beloved outfits to the fire gods to be back in 9th grade at the pool at ACSA.

Talk to me about the Maurya Sheraton, Palika Bazaar, the Marine House, the compound, the commissary. Talk about sports conventions, about Limca and Campa Cola. Walk with me down Malcha Marg, or Janpath, or over to Julie's house to watch MTV videotapes.

Those are glory days, just like the Springsteen song.

We're not stuck in them; we've lived beyond, found love, had families, accomplished big things,  created satisfying lives.

But there is nothing that feels so good to me as being in a room filled with you. You're so dear to me, a part of my heart. I never, outside my family, feel so safe and loved as when I'm with you.

I never laugh so hard. I never dance so much. And I never otherwise laugh and dance at the same time.

I never wish so fervently that time would cease to function.

When we are together, we are all 16 or 17, and the most amazing teenagers in existence. We are kind, hilarious, luminous--and all the more so because we've shed insecurities, lived big lives, nurtured others. We've had to say goodbye to people we love dearly.

You're the most generous, loving group of friends I could imagine.

I started this, but so many people put it together. Thank you, Justin, for getting the Friday venue, and thank you Jason for taking charge of the donation. Thank you, Nicole and Paul, and Jason E for supporting me through freakouts about the restaurant flood.

Thank you Wendy's parents, for a lovely afternoon event. Thank you Wendy, Paul, and Jason for amazing playlists. Thank you Jason for DJing, and for organizing my present. I can't thank you all enough.

I didn't need a spa present, and I cannot wait to use it. I hope you know I would organize a gathering every year, because spending the time together is a gift to me.

You knew me when I was young and fragile and living with crazy, but not understanding how much crazy, or how deeply it affected me. I am so grateful that you remember the funny, the clever, the best, most endearing pieces of me.

These are the parts that radiate when I'm with you, because I am so incredibly happy. Who wouldn't want to spend as much time as possible with those who bring out your best, most joyful self?

We ended the night as we ended dance parties back then, in a big circle with All Night Long.

Life is good, wild and sweet. Let the music play on (play on, play on, play on).

I love you and I miss you. And I always will.

Lisa

Turn around, bright eyes...

I have a mini high school reunion this weekend. This weekend!!!

If you know me then you know this means I'm going to spend the weekend laughing uproariously, chatting, dancing, laughing some more, and not sleeping. Next week I will have a tremendous emotional hangover.

And every minute will have been worth it.

So now let's talk about outfits. Because you know I love few things as much as I love to talk about clothing and footwear.

We know it truly doesn't matter what I wear, because these are people who love me. Who knew me when I was an angsty, insecure teenager with a Cyndi Lauper crisscross shaved into the side of my head sporting the best Mary Quant blue mascara and a neon green RELAX T-shirt that I wish I still had.

OK. So. There are two nights: a bar night and a dinner night. I could wear jeans or a dress to either. Mostly I need to be able to dance. It might be warm and it might be cold because Ned Stark is long dead and winter is here.

Here are options I pulled together over the weekend:

1. Embroidered mirrored jumpsuit 

This is, I think, the most fabulous. My mom made it in the 1960s for a friend. This friend kept it in storage for decades after she stopped wearing it, and then gave it to me.

The main downside for a party is that it is hard to get into and out of and I can't zip up the back by myself.

2. Jeans and a black top and platform boots. 

Maybe for Friday? I don't know how flattering this top is, though it is floaty and comfy. I could pair it with the jean jacket in the last option.

3. Black dress and booties

What about the booties, though? Too solid black with the screamily white legs above?

3. Black dress and superhero boots. Seriously--look at the backs.

4. Blue dress and boots (or booties? Or sandals?).

SAME DRESS just turned inside out! So tricky! And it has a secret pocket whether it's on the black or blue side! Could be with booties or boots.

5. Black sundress and sandals (in case it is warm) with chunky jewelry and jean jacket.

Some people call it a one night stand, but we can call it paradise...

Dear AESers,

I love you. I miss you. I will always love and miss you.

When I am with you, I am my truest, most ridiculous, most joyful, most unfiltered self. And I am pretty candid and transparent to begin with.

With you, I feel safe. This wasn't always the case, as I was a scared, insecure, fucked up teenager. I loved you back then. I might have just been scared to talk to you. Like if you were a boy, for example.

You were gorgeous then, and you're even more gorgeous now. I'm just not nervous anymore. And boy, does that feel good.

And for one weekend, one delicious, delightful, intense weekend, there we all were, back together.

Some of you I have known since I was born. Some of you were my teachers. Some of you I hadn't seen for 30 years. Some of you left before I arrived, but you were legendary and I'd heard your name so many times that meeting you, I felt like I was meeting a celebrity. Some of you came after I'd left, and it felt great to have a new friend.

So 30 years later, or maybe for the first time, but from a long-ago place, we hugged, and no time had passed.

I may have burst into tears.

And then, in the next moment, laughed really hard.

Because you walked back into my life from the best, richest, most beautiful time of my life. The time that I go back to in my dreams. The days that, when I am in a dark place, I ache for. Those days are my happy place. Even if, let's be honest, back then I was filled with teen angst.

The truth is, you are my happy place.

I love my husband and my children more than my own life, and they are my people. But so are you. And in some ways, you know me better than Nick ever will. It's not good or bad; it just is.

You can explain going to school in Delhi and the vultures in the tree outside the front gate, or that one time in Goa, or camel trekking in Jaisalmer.

But you cannot explain the anticipation you felt sweating in a cab on the way to the Gunghroo. Or the nervousness backstage before your entrance in the school play. Or the smell of camels. Or the ache in the air before the monsoon hit, and the joy of diving into puddles on the soccer field between classes because they'd filled in the hour that you'd been sitting in Geometry.

These things are part of our souls.

We've grown, but we're still the same. Just better. So much better. Some of you loved my mom in high school, and you love her still. Seeing this makes me so happy. These reconnections nourish the deepest parts of our beings.

We're older and stronger and kinder and more beautiful. We've lived through joy and through trauma. We have survived war and cancer and terrible loss.

We are beautiful human beings, all of us.

Maybe you could pack more hugs and drinks and laughter and dancing and just general joy into a weekend, but I'm not sure how.

Saturday night we were dancing to Tarzan Boy and Rio and someone said, "If only the dance floor had squares that lit up." If only it were the Gunghroo in the Maurya Sheraton.

We danced and we danced and we got all hot and sweaty and Anne said she wished she could take off her clothes. And I agreed, because when I have been drinking and dancing it always seems like a good idea.

But we agreed we'd be kicked out of the hotel and then it would all come to an abrupt and shameful end. So we just kept dancing and sweating.

I mean, we didn't have to do all those moves to Kung Fu Fighting. Wendy and I didn't really have to try to organize a flying leap that may not actually have worked out all that well.

But I regret nothing.

We ended the dancing in a circle with All Night Long. I type this with a lump in my throat. I can feel us swaying to the music, and feel the knowledge that time is short.

And then we took the party upstairs to Sid's room. Somewhere around 3:00, people started to trickle away. Anne said, "I'm not ready for it to end."

None of us wanted it to end. Just like in high school, we prowled the hotel hallways, on the way to the next party.

If only we were still together now.

If only.

If only we were back in Delhi. If only it were the mid-80s, and we were all so young and gorgeous and, though we were dressed up and sipping gin and tonics in fancy hotels, so very innocent.

We thought we were so worldly and sophisticated. And we had no idea.

If only we had our whole lives ahead of us. My friend Kassie said, "If only I'd known then what I know now."

Yes. We seized the day, we really did. But I'd have seized it harder. I'd like to have known then that you all loved me, and didn't judge me. I'd like to have known that actually, my butt looked just fine in those jeans and I didn't really need all that blue eyeliner.

Anyway. I know it now.

When we're looking for my son's shoes and I ask if he knows where they are, he says, "They're somewhere." This is always true.

And when I look into my heart, my somewhere is you.

I love you and I miss you. Hugging hello fills me with such joy. Dancing and laughing and sneaking liquor in big hotels makes me feel like I am 17 again. In the most beautiful, joyful, giddy, wonderful way.

Saying goodbye to you breaks my heart. I love you. You dazzle me.

And you always will.

Love,

Lisa

And when she shines she really shows you all she can...

My song recognition skills are pretty poor. And I often get song lyrics wrong. Very wrong. Even though I give them actual thought and they make sense in my mind.

You all know this about me. Big Ole Chedo Lino, don't carry me too far away. Oh, Big Ole Chedo Lino, cause it's here that I've got to stay...

There are many songs to which I do not know the lyrics, correct ones or no. But there is this narrow swath of 80s songs that I know by heart. Or anyway, I believe I know. I can even recognize most of them in the beginning, not just when they get to the chorus.

Now, I ardently embraced Duran Duran in the 1980s, and I still love the entire Rio album. I have been singing along to it for all these years.

If you came of age in the 80s you yourself may know and love the song Rio? "Her name is Rio and she dances on the sand..."

Yah. So, there's this one line that it turns out I've had dead wrong this whole time.

The song came on in the car the other day, and since I do unabashedly croon off-tune in front of my family, I was singing along all, 

"Like a bird of prey or a pretty view
But then I'm sure that you know it's just for you..."

Nick said, "What did you just say?"

"Like a bird of prey or a pretty view. But then I'm sure that you know it's just for you..."

"It's birthday. Like a birthday or a pretty view."

"Birthday makes no sense."

"It does. Birthday. Something nice. How'd you come up with bird of prey, anyway?"

"You know, bird's-eye view. Up really high...I don't know. It's what it sounds like. Are you sure?"

He was sure.

Happy bird of prey to you, is all I'm saying.

Turns out

In high school, my dear friend Kristin used to say, "Life would be so much better if people just did what I wanted."

I would always agree; it totally would. Wouldn't it?

Which brings me to Marriage. Specifically, ours, now. Because high school was back when I believed that you got married and then you lived in a state of happiness. The end.

We currently have plans to do something I want to do. Something we agreed on last summer after a stint in the marital Fire Swamp.

Marriage, or anyway ours, is never even. You don't have the same amount of anything--love, happiness, chore doing, child rearing--ever. Sometimes it is 80-20, sometimes 52-48, sometimes 17-83. It sloshes back and forth and I believe that things generally come out even, even if they never are on a daily or weekly or monthly basis.

(And here let me tell you that I had to do math for that. Because I am the person who once asked for a 60-30 beverage mix.)

Sometimes we do what Nick wants, sometimes what I want, sometimes what neither of us wants, but we know that the kids will be delighted. And we agree that delighting our kids is a worthwhile goal. Occasionally but rarely we all want the same thing.

I mean, we want harmony and happiness. (We being Nick and me. The kids want candy all the time.) We want a strong family. Those are common goals. But what we actually want to do when we have time to choose? Those are rarely the same.

So back to the issue at hand.

We are at a decision-making point in the doing of what Lisa wants. And yesterday Nick felt blindsided because I was, seemingly out of the blue, trying to force him to make a quick decision.

But the fact is that none of it was out of the blue for me. I just hadn't involved him up to that point  because I know he's not interested.

He was mad and I was mad. Ragingly so.

And finally he said, "Stop. Yes, I'm doing this for you. And I don't understand why I'm being yelled at. You said this was important to you and I said yes, and now we're doing it. So why are you punishing me for doing what you wanted?"

Fair point.

So I had to look inside and realize that actually, I'm annoyed that it's not what he wants to do. If we get there and he doesn't like it, it's on me. And it is a reminder that one of us will always be doing what we wouldn't choose, no matter how nice it might be.

It is true that I can't make him want what I want. People just don't work that way. He'd love it if I loved sailing, for example. Or wanted to go to Maine every summer.

These are luxuries. They are nice things. A trip to Maine is lovely, truly. But it is not my desire; it is his.

Preferences are all pieces of who we are. And when we reach a point where we can do or have things that most of the time are out of reach, they feel a lot more urgent.

To me, anyway.

And so, yes. He's doing what I want. And he's not complaining. I've done a lot of what he wants. Sometimes it's been terrific. Sometimes not. Sometimes I've complained and sometimes I've not complained. And still I think he knew I was going along with what he wanted.

So maybe he felt the same way I feel now. I don't know.

Marriage is complicated, is I guess what I'm saying once again. You choose your person for a reason, or 54 great reasons, but that doesn't mean they're going to want to do what you want. And when they do, it doesn't necessarily make your life better.

Basically, you don't just live in a state of happiness because you're married.

Who knew in high school?

Day 3: Why, then, ’tis none to you, for there is nothing either good or bad, but thinking makes it so.

Smoothie: Mixed greens, spinach, banana, apple, blueberries, flax seed, protein powder

Taste: Totally decent

Mood: Tired and phlegmy (Allergies? Toxins working their way out?)

Smug points: 32

Have I told you how I spent a lot of my time in high school?

Not on sex and drugs and rock 'n roll, sadly. This a fact that I totally regret.

No. I spent a tremendous amount of time on not eating. And exercising. Because anything I did eat, like food, would instantly make me fat. Which would be terrible and nobody would love me. So I would immediately have to go for a run. Because for God's sake, my thighs were huge enough as it was.

I don't know if you've ever done a bunch of not eating, but if you haven't let me tell you: when you are trying not to eat, food is ALL. You. Think. About.

So I wasted all this time and energy trying to avoid food, which is pretty hard, really, because most people have meals three times a day and snacks at other times. And also, food is delicious. And important for your muscles and your brain and so on and so forth.

This meant that I was almost always tired, plus I was a teenage girl, so I wasn't necessarily the most emotionally stable person around. I once burst into tears and asked my dear friend Kris, "How did I get so fat so fast?" Kris was and still is gorgeous, tall, and willowy, but she also had body dysmorphia and as such was always happy to compare enormity of thighs with me.

All very helpful, yes, yes.

In fact, when I saw her last year, one of the first things we did was compliment each other and then we reached over to squeeze each other's stomachs to insist that the other's stomach was not squishy like she claimed.

Old habits die hard. In fact, maybe they never completely die.

However.

Now I can look back and say that when everything in your life is out of control, like if you're a first-born rule-following teenage girl in a crazy household and other people have all the power, the one thing you can control is your food intake. Unless your parents are willing to hold you down, shove food in your mouth, and make you swallow - and mine weren't - nobody can actually force feed you.

You might not be pretty enough or smart enough or whatever enough, but you can eat less than everyone else, which means you can be thinner. Which is still not thin enough. You can feel momentarily better about yourself when you see someone eating a cookie and know you want one but are strong enough to resist.

And then I went off to college and fell thoroughly apart, and all the control I had over my eating went straight out the window and I gained 40 pounds and hated everything about myself.

So fast forwards a couple decades and a lot of therapy and here we are, with Nick and me doing a lot of not eating.

For Nick, this is something completely different, in that for the longest time he was athletic and could eat whatever he wanted, which was a lot of everything except fruit and vegetables. He was big and strong and he burned all those calories without trying. And then once he started sitting at a desk all day, he still ate whatever he wanted. And it all caught up with him.

For me it is something completely different, in that it is a temporary choice. Normally I eat plenty of real food and I know that at any moment I could walk down the street and have a chocolate milkshake and it wouldn't affect my outer attractiveness or how much people love me.

Although if I did that right now, what it would do is really piss off my husband, because we have seven more days to go. And we are in this together.

Mmm, detox tea!

Let the music play on (play on, play on)

You are 16 and at a party with all the cool kids, which is pretty much everyone you know.  You are young, beautiful, goofy, and in love with life and with your friends.

You are all 16 and amazing, in love and loved. But now you are secure in the knowledge that you are amazing and you are loved. You're not thinking about the size of your thighs or if you're wearing the right pants or if everyone is going to think the thing you just said was stupid.

No.

Because now you have the added benefit of decades of life experience and self-confidence. And you know that sometimes you have it good, and when you do, you need to live it big, hold tight to every single moment of it, toss your joy high up in the air and see it sprinkle around.

You know that time is fleeting and love is not to be taken for granted, and so you throw your arms wide and embrace it all.

This is all of you.

Sound like magic?

It was. For one whole weekend, we were our high school selves in a grown-up world and everything was sprinkled with fairy dust and rainbows and kissed by unicorns.

I mean, really. It had poured almost all week. Cold, grey, and grim. Thursday was warm and muggy. But starting Friday the sun was lovely and clear and the air was bright and sparkly. The flowers beamed. And so did we.

I don't want to say it was like a Disney film and the birds were chirping around helping us get dressed for the ball...but sort of.

My friend Nicole (pictured above in kissing pose) arrived on Monday, and we were giddy for an entire week. Nick told me last night that he had been worried that the weekend wouldn't live up to our expectations, because we were so excited.

Beyond excited.

He said, "I don't want to compare you to children, but you were like kids on Christmas. You were squealing and squeaking and shaking with excitement on Friday morning. You were counting the hours."

And that's exactly how it was. Friday morning felt like Christmas was upon us.

One friend flew from Sweden. Another from Costa Rica. And Greg, who was hosting the Saturday brunch, had just gotten back from Delhi Friday morning. Saturday night he said, "I'm just going to keep going until I physically cannot go any more."

That's how it was.

We spent Friday evening at Roofers Union (which was fantastic) and as each person arrived, we hugged and cried and laughed. And then the next person! Oh, and the next! It was like one gift after another!

As the evening wore on, people trickled away - back to the hotel or home. A couple people left to go dancing. And somewhere around midnight a band of us stopped for empanadas and then trip-trapped back to my house.

Nicole led some elevator rides. The next day one of my friends told Betty he hoped we hadn't woken her, and frankly, she was disappointed that we hadn't. She'd have come down and hung out.

There was laughter and snorting and talk of keeping one's maple syrup in one's sporran and it was really all kind of perfect until suddenly it was 4:00 am and why did it seem like a good idea to continue opening those bottles of wine?

Nicole and I staggered out onto the front steps around 11:00 am to check the temperature and saw a neighbor who asked how the festivities had been. We said, "Amazing. Difficult morning, and we need to be at the next event at noon."

"Yeah. You look terrible. I mean pained. Not terrible."

His advice: Advil, water, coffee, food, and a hot shower. Oh, and a poop. Preferably all before the brunch, but certainly before night.

It seems a sound strategy.

We all congregated at a friend's house for brunch and volleyball (ha).  Our friend Richard and his wife hadn't been able to fly till that morning, and when they arrived it was another celebration. Whee!

I will say that I felt significantly better once I'd had a beer and danced to Thriller. Hair of the dog and Michael Jackson will fix a lot.

And then...then it was time to head home and get ready for the Big Indian Dinner! We'd managed to fill Himalayan Heritage and I have to say, they were spectacular. The staff is lovely and kind and accommodating, and the food is terrific.

After dinner they moved tables and the staff tried to get the hanging lamps (hung low for table dining, not expecting dance parties) out of the way for the dancing that we proceeded to do for the next five hours. In the end, we danced around them. The lamps, I mean. Not the staff.

Wendy and Richard had made amazing 80s playlists, and every song that came on was the Best! Song! Ever!

I mean, did Wham! have a bad song? I think not.

I'd warned them that we needed a lot of beer. A lot. So they ordered 150 of those large Indian beers. Just to be sure.

I'm not sure if we finished them, but I do know we made a good dent. We all did our best. (Cheers, Wendy!)

At 3:00 am the managers said that legally, they had to ask us to go. Otherwise, we could stay all night. They are gems, they truly are.

My friend since birth Jordan, (seen below and brewer extraordinaire) spent the night, and in the morning he and my Jordan introduced themselves to each other. My son's mind was kind of blown. Jordan? I'm Jordan! Whoa!

And then a few other friends came by for a bit, and as we said goodbye we said, "We'll text. Maybe we can get together this afternoon."

Sometimes when I leave, my kids will sit on one of my feet and wrap their arms and legs around my leg. This is exactly what I wanted to do. Noooo! Don't gooo!

Because spending time with these people for me is what I imagine drugs to be like. Because as soon as it is about to end, I immediately want more. And when it is really over and they are gone, I crash. If I could get another fix, I would.

(So while I regret not having doing the drugs while I was young, it's probably for the best, you know?)

Late, late into the night on Saturday, or rather in the wee small hours of Sunday morning, there we were, dancing to Lionel Richie in a circle. All Night Long. A number of us may have wept a little.

You are young, you are beautiful, you are in love with life and everyone around you.
You dance to all the songs. You spread your arms and your heart wide open. You dance with everyone.

You laugh until you snort and you cry and you hug and you kiss and you dance.

Oh, you dance.

Some are like water, some are like the heat. Some are the melody, some are the beat...

Post-prom at the Gunghroo disco in Delhi

This weekend we are having a little unofficial high school reunion right here in DC.

I don't know what I'm going to wear! I mean, none of them are going to care. I could turn up in a jute sack and they would still love me.

But naturally, I want to look like my cutest self with the people around whom I am my favorite self.

I have been counting down for months. Months. Then weeks. And now we are down to days. Really, even hours if one were mathier than I and wanted to do it that way.

At this point, we're going to have about 43 people, some attending both Friday and Saturday, and some of whom can only make it one night. A lot of us are local, or anyway on the East Coast, but a surprising number live in Texas. One guy is coming from Sweden and another from Costa Rica! 

We've got private space for both nights - Friday in a bar/restaurant, and Saturday in an Indian restaurant.  We have the whole place, and the manager said that we can totally turn it into a dance party after dinner if we'd like. We can play whatever we want. He does DJing on the side, and said he'd bring lights.

People have been making playlists. Random songs I have not thought of since the disco in Delhi are surfacing. I mean, Brother Louie by Modern Talking?! Yes, please!

I am beyond excited.
I've poured my heart out before about how I feel about these people. About how they are home for me.

At the end of high school parties, we used to get in a big circle - I mean all of us - arms around each other, and sway to Lionel Richie's All Night Long (All Night). All connected, all glad to be together.

Can you tell how much I cannot wait for this?

Yeah, and she's probably a West End girl...

So this morning my old friend Richard shared this on Facebook.

Photo credit: http://skreened.com/musiclife/oldies-classicsss

Loving all things 80s (except shoulder pads) with a deep and abiding passion, I could not resist jumping on the thread.

And she wore her Sunglasses at night...

While riding on the Metro...

Wanna play?

Our Town

Last week I went to a funeral and a mini high school reunion, the latter of which would not have happened without the former.

The father of two brothers - both friends of mine from Delhi days - had passed away, and they came to DC for the funeral. One called me to give me the news, which I passed on to another dear friend, and those few of us in town jumped quickly to offer support.

We were so very sad about the circumstances, but delighted to be together. I remember this juxtaposition of grief and joy from my dad's memorial service.

I hadn't seen either brother - the older of whom took me to my junior prom, and hand-to-God was back then the most beautiful man I had ever seen up close in my life - since 1986. Which, if you don't feel like doing the math, is 27 years.

And yet, as I am reminded every time there is a Delhi gathering, it doesn't matter how long it's been. We will hug a genuine, warm embrace. We will catch others up on intervening years, introduce spouses, show pictures of children.

And then the reminiscing begins.

It was funny, you know, because next week Nick and I are going to New Hampshire, and ever since we'd booked tickets, I'd been thinking I should get in touch with my dear high school friend Paul, who played the stage manager in our high school's rendition of Our Town by Thornton Wilder.

Here's my friend Paul. We're more grown up than I ever imagined possible way back in 1985.

Our Town remains, to this day, one of my favorite plays, and my only knowledge of New Hampshire.

So I thought about Paul, and the other friends in the play, and the hours and days and weeks we all spent working on our lines and what an extraordinary thing it was to be involved in, during what would turn out to be, except for marriage and babies, the best, most extraordinary time of my life.

It was the era of the Breakfast Club, but we were all jocks and nerds and queens and thespians and musicians. Some of us were even criminals to some degree.

None of us were unpopular. None of us were marginalized.

I thought about how it had been too long, and how we don't live that far apart, and how I should reach out and see how his life was going.

And then my life got in the way, as it does.

Then suddenly there we were, all crying and hugging at the funeral. And later, all drinking Taj Mahal beer and eating Indian food and laughing over antics from 30 years prior.

Here are two Pauls. Doing Zoolander. I know I look like a creepy intruder. But I wasn't. I promise. And the other guy in the photo is very private, so you only have a peek at his shoulder.

Here, here's how it mostly is when we get together. You laugh and laugh till you cry.

In a side conversation, I overheard Paul (in the stripes) telling his lovely girlfriend how hard our crowd can be for significant others. Not because we want to exclude anyone. But because we are all so focused on each other.

It is something I have never experienced in another group of people. It's a bit like being in love in the initial stages. Everyone is beautiful, brilliant, hilarious, and fascinating.

You can hear that story of that one thing that happened in 11th grade over and over and over, and still it is the funniest/most daring/craziest thing you have ever heard. And you want to hear it again. You request it.

(You could see how spouses might tire of two solid days of this.)

In this crowd, you are your very best self, not because you are trying to be, but because everyone sees you for who you are, and they love you for the you-ness of you. It makes you feel wonderful.

Beyond that, you do not have to explain anything. You pull words and phrases out that have sat unused for years: sports conventions, ACSA, proms, Pepperling, Janpath, camel treks, Malcha Marg, the Gunghroo, movies at the embassy, Claridge's, the Marine house. They all mean something to this group that they do not mean to anyone else.

It fills up my heart to spend time with these old friends. It's like I finally figured out after the last reunion: these people are home. It's a hard thing to come down from.

And every once in a while you get a terrible reminder of the transitory nature of life. An underlining of the fact that people you love are all there is.

I need to make sure I carve time out for more of them.

The morning star always gets wonderful bright the minute before it has to go, doesn't it?

Corporeal punishment. (Or: Spanx me!)

I don't know about you, but I have a much lower tolerance for discomfort than I used to.

Also, those aren't real pockets. I mean, they are, but mostly they're part of the 60s design, which you can see if you you embiggen the photo. I guess you might be able to keep a piece of gum or a small gecko in them, but not much more than that or they would bulge.

But the discomfort business. I can't figure out if this is a result of age or the toll of post-pregnancy or being a mother and needing to find practical things like Danskos attractive.

That said, I loved my neon green Relax tank top to death in the 80s, and of course there was the wretched Disco 69 T-shirt, so my taste has probably always been questionable.

But really. Some of the heels I used to mince around in are unimaginable to me now. My toes are less cooperative about being squinched. And my hip bones are less forgiving of the waistband of certain jeans. The pokey-forwardy hips are a direct result of pregnancy, I think.

Like, my stomach got less flat, but my hips decided to poke forward more. One more kid and they'll be able to see Russia from our porch.

Anyway, now we don't likes my old jeans. Wicked, tricksy, false! Now we likes spandex in our jeans, my precioussss. We also like yoga pants, even though we don't do yoga. But we can't go to work in them.

So, let's talk about my Spanx issue.

I got this dress in Paris and then was too pregnant to wear it. And then I couldn't wear it to work because of the pumping, because who wants to sit in the lactation room practically naked? Not I. But now I can wear dresses and it's wool and Dear Lord please let winter end but in the meantime I'm going to wear my wool as much as I can.

Right. OK.

Let's just be honest here: This is a first-world problem, but sometimes, for some non-yoga pantsy outfits, I need a few things squozen.

I just got this desperately needed black pair, because my beige pair has bitey seams on the inner thigh and also, I wear a lot of black and let's just say the beige pair is not invisible with black tights.

Which brings me to Spanx. These are the first actual Spanx squeezer-inners I've actually purchased. And they work! Oh, they do!

My Spanx are currently killing me providing a smooth silhouette and discreetly helping me squeeze the shit out of my thighs  into rock one of my favorite dresses. I bought them for the thigh business, but as an added bonus, they also cut off my stomach circulation slim my tummy.

It's really only when I sit down, though. I feel great when standing or walking.

So far, I'm a fan.

Skip to my Lou, my darlin'

Would it bug you to have insects in your sugar shaker?

(Also. This has nothing to do with collecting dead bugs for the office - which, let's be clear, I never actually did.)

So, the sugar. Plastic ones, I mean. Not real live or even dead ones. Because that would just be obviously gross, and who wouldn't be bothered by that?

Now that I say that, I realize that there are cultures that do eat beetles and crickets and such. Plus there are the maggot and mite cheeses.

And actually, if you have ever eaten insects, I'd love to hear about it. But for all of you who have not, who might not be all, ooh, ants! Tasty! Would it bother you?

Because, here's the thing. We've always had plastic insects around the house. Betty is fond of them. If you came to stay at their house, you might find a rubber cockroach on your pillow, or a plastic cricket in your napkin.

So when she realized that her plastic ants were just the right size to live in the sugar shaker and not fall through the hole in the top, they went directly in. And when I saw a package of plastic flies, I knew just who to buy them for.

And then she moved in with her sugar shakers, and now her bugs are our bugs.

Nick, however, is not so much on the bugs.

This past weekend he cleaned the shaker, washed the bugs, and set them aside. "The joke has been played," he said. "Can we now get rid of the bugs?"

Now, every once in a while someone notices them and jumps. When Kelli was in town for our high school reunion, she walked over to me holding the sugar.

"I know I'm drunk, but am I hallucinating? Are there tiny little spiders in here?"

By now, they are kind of like decoration. When someone is surprised by them, it's a bonus, but that's not what it's about. I like them. Nick, he does not.

But I mean, really. What's the bug deal?

Two hotels, flimsy safety pins, one boob, and yet another awkward position

If Kelli's string hadn't broken, or the Marriott safety pins weren't so flimsy, or we'd gone to the right hotel in the first place, or if Kelli had worn a bra, we wouldn't have wound up in such a seemingly-compromising position.

Is what I'm saying.

Kelli, as you may know, has these very nice boobs that she paid good money for and really quite enjoys.

So we were almost to Crystal City when Kelli said, "Oh!" and grabbed the side of her wrap dress.

The wrap string had broken. And she wasn't wearing a bra.

So we headed towards the Marriott, although it turns out there are two Marriotts, so pay attention if you're going there.

We minced into the Wrong Marriott and headed for the reception desk, where a very nice woman gave Kelli a handful of what turned out to be the most ineffectual safety pins on the planet.

And then I asked her where the rest of the hotel was.

"The rest of the hotel? This is it."

Turns out we meant the other Marriott.

But nonetheless, the dress had to be fixed, so we headed to the bathroom and Kelli spent some time reaching into her dress while holding it shut and then one pin bent and then another and she said, "Oh for Pete's sake!" and let go of the dress.

At which point I offered to try to pin the tie back on.

I think we were so immersed in this that we didn't notice the woman walk into the stall.

We did, however, notice her walk out.

Because at that point, Kelli was towering over me in her 5" heels, looking down.

I was doing a semi-squat, eye to nipple, reaching both arms around her, one in her dress, trying to get the damn pins to work.

So the woman, she walked out of the stall. And kind of started as she saw us. She froze, just for a moment, then hurried to wash her hands.

Our eyes meet in the mirror.

I considered winking, but realized we seemed all kinds of suspect as it was.

Kelli smiled and said, "Hi!"

She hurried out, not stopping to dry her hands.

That was before things even really began.

So Nick compared my high school reunion to a wedding and it makes me want to wear my veil and I am not kidding

One of Nick's friends asked him how my high school reunion went.

He replied, "She had a great time. It was kind of like a wedding."

I don't know if you have ever donned a veil, but I did, just that once, and it felt like magic. When I was a kid, one Christmas my dad gave me a purple feather boa. I just felt better when I had it on. It was exactly like that.

I'd wear it every day if I could. Honestly.

But I digress.

So he went on to explain the wedding analogy to me: there was the build-up. The anticipation! The excitement! And! Then! The all-weekend party! It was so incredible for all of us to be together! We stayed up late and drank too much and danced and talked and talked and talked and had such an amazing time!

(I'm adding the exclamation points; unlike me, Nick doesn't talk all exclamation-pointy.)

He went on, "And then there was some bratty behavior..."

"Wait, who was bratty?"

"You were. You were kind of a bridezilla."

"I was not! At our wedding!?"

"No. At your reunion."

"What?"

"You were all, this is MY weekend."

(At which point I was immediately all, asshole, it was MY weekend. YOU had your reunion weekend out of town. So you spent the weekend boozing and sleeping in and doing whatever the fuck you wanted ELSEWHERE while I stayed home with the kid.)

But since I'd already gotten 54 kinds of furious about our incident that weekend, thus branding myself as "bratty" I said, "Go on."

Although I maybe muttered "anal sphincter" under my breath a few times in a row. What? Sometimes it just feels good.

He continued, "You all had a great time all weekend. And then it was over and everyone left. And then you crashed."

And this was true. I had a hard week last week. I felt a lack in my world.

(I'd say a disruption in the force, but then you'd know for sure what a dork I am.)

I'd heard about people having the post-wedding crash, where they miss the lead-up and the excitement and anticipation and then they have such a good time! And then there is this void in their lives.

While I loved our wedding like crazy and wanted it to go on and on, this wasn't the case with me.

But post-reunion, I definitely felt like my life was, I don't know, a little less brightly colored. It wasn't Oz vs. Kansas. But somehow slightly diminished.

Realistically, I know that it was a superintense, highly emotional time. We filled Every. Single. Minute. with talk and laughter and drinks and remember when! and hugging and oh!, there is not enough time! Sleep is for when you're dead because we only have a couple days! and wow, I've missed you!

You can't sustain that intensity for very long. I get that. But coming down from it was hard.

And I love my now life. I love my husband and my child beyond reason. I never get enough time with either of them, and I revel in the time we have. I love where we live. I love my friends.

But still, I've realized that there's this little piece of my heart that is missing here.

It doesn't stop me from being happy. I don't generally feel the lack.

In fact, I didn't even realize it was empty, until it was full.

I'm so totally putting on that veil when I get home.

Monday bitty bits

Too much to do: I currently have too many competing projects and deadlines. Some people can start at the top of the list and calmly work their way down. I kind of start in the middle and spin around frantically.

80s music: I've been listening non-stop to the 80s mix that Russ, Kelli and I made reunion weekend. I was thinking maybe Jordan likes it because I played it for him in-utero but I realized it's probably because I dance around like a maniac while it's on. Love!

Aging: Sooo I just realized that a month from tomorrow I'm going to be a whole nother year older. Which means J is coming up on a year. Cripes.

New Favorite Chocolate: Have you tried Vosges chocolate bars? We got some as a present, and oh, happiness and delight!

Does this make me a terrible mother?: We need to get J a passport...which is all fine and good except that I still haven't applied for his birth certificate.

Blogger keeps eating comments and the Chinese spammers make me mad and I totally think we should hug it out

First things first: Blogger seems to be eating comments. I thought it ate some of mine.

But they seem to be turning up hours later.

Actually, it might not entirely be Blogger's fault. I suspect the Chinese spammers who leave me daily comments are likely heavily involved.

They probably steal my comments in my sleep and when I'm actually working on work work and replace them with things like, "Heavenly breezes, rough seas and small boats, so cheap Viagra!"

You think it's a haiku - oh, someone is leaving me poetry! - but then you remember that that's a Japanese art form. And I doubt real poets get involved in other people's erections.

Although truthfully, what do I know about the confluence of poetry and erections?

And WHAT is my point? I think all the endorphins from the weekend have temporarily created a void in my brain.

Ah, the point.

That if you have commented and you think it's gone nowhere, and you're all, this is the first and LAST time I comment on Lisa's blog because she just throws them away! Because WHERE is my comment?

I don't know where it is! Maybe in a Chinese Viagra warehouse?

But I jump up and down with excitement whenever I get comments, particularly from old friends, and I love having them on the blog, because that way I keep them forever and ever.

So just know that it might appear tomorrow. But they do wind up in my in-box and I read them and adore them. So please don't stop just because they seem to have gone into a vacuum.

I was about to be all, "Fucking Blogger! Fucking Chinese spammers!" but I've decided to try and be more Zen.

Don't think I didn't hear you snorting loudly at your keyboards.

Also, the hugging.

Nick, he comes from non-huggy people. They might hug hello when you arrive for a long visit. And they might hug goodbye. Or they might just say "Bye!" from across the room.

Whereas me, I hug. I hug you hello. I hug you goodbye. Even if I'm going to see you a couple hours later. At which point I will hug you hello again.

"You're leaving? Oh, you're just going to the bathroom? Well, let me hug you in case I don't see you when you come back."

I exaggerate, but not by much.

And so Nick, he gets over-hugged by my people.

At the end of our wedding weekend, he turned to me and said, "What's with the hugging strangers? I've never been hugged so much by so many people in my life. Two of them even kissed me on the lips!"

This happens. Some of the overseas friends are lip kissers. I knew exactly who he was talking about.

I shrugged, "It's good for you."

Nick thinks it's weird, all the hugging. I think, how can you be over-hugged? Tell me it doesn't feel good.

Unless, of course, someone creepy and molesty is trying to hug you. Eeeee! Run away! But in that situation, I know Nick could hold his own.

That sounds sketchy in itself. But you know what I mean.

So I knew that reunion weekend would be similar. I didn't warn him, because it's good to keep him on his big ole toes.

HUGS! HUGS to all of you! I hug you from afar!

Except you, Chinese spammers. You're pissing me off. I'm not hugging you. And not just because you're probably all walking around with perpetual erections.

AND ALSO! OPEN THE GODDAMN WAREHOUSE AND GIVE ME BACK MY COMMENTS!

Reunion weekend: Nick gets over-hugged by people he's just met and I wish time would stand absolutely still

I've lost my front door key. I can't find my phone. I still have random sparkles stuck to myself. I'm exhausted and a little teary.

I bet this is how it feels to come down from a three-day cocaine binge.

I'm guessing, because drugs are one of those things - like tons of casual sex or maybe threesomes - that I feel like I ought to have done in my twenties.

I have never been seize-the-day-y enough.

Not, of course, that people were offering me drugs or threesomes on streetcorners or anything. It's not like I was non-seizing left and right.

So.

So Kelli and Russ arrived early Thursday evening, and honestly, I didn't stop laughing until I dropped Kel at the airport this afternoon.

I've long felt that people don't really change as they age - they just become more so. You distill, I suppose.

We're all still who we were in high school - just more. More candid. Funnier. Smarter. Kinder. More experienced and wiser.

More cognizant of the fact that what we had in each other was rare, and the fact that we still have it is precious.

High school for us was a place without cliques, where everyone was accepted, embraced. It was a small school, and a small ex-pat community. You played sports, did theatre, were in the band, the science club, ran track - you did several or all of those things at once.

After high school, most of us went off to our own countries - the countries we were supposedly "from." I learned this weekend how lost so many of us were. We didn't know how to fit in where we were supposed to.

Eventually, we all figured out how to fit, more or less, and how to feel comfortable.

Quite a number of years have passed at this point.

We've been to college, gotten married, divorced, remarried, moved, had kids, bought houses, quit smoking, begun and ended careers, started businesses, lost hair, lost friends, lost parents.

We've grown up. But not apart, astoundingly enough.

Because in our hearts and souls, we are the same.

I always thought it was India that I longed for when I ached to be home, although I wasn't from India. And once my parents left, Delhi wasn't home.

And what I realized this weekend was, it was these people. They were my sense of place and belonging.

This past weekend, I was so very home.

Surprise quicksand in the shallow end

I know this is Frivolous Week, but I got all heavy in my head, and to mitigate that for you, I thought I'd share a very sketchy fashion choice from my 80s.

Sooo. As you know, I've been posting all these dress options, and you've so kindly given me your opinions, and for me it's been like playing a game. With clothing! And shoes!

I love thinking about clothing, fabric, color. It's more fun than almost anything else I think about on a daily basis. I write all the time for my job. But not about anything I find compelling.

And why didn't I go into fashion? Why was I too insecure to do anything I actually liked?

(Yes, I know the answer to that. I've spent a boatload of cash answering those kinds of questions.)

So yesterday I learned that more of my high school friends have read my blog than I might expect - at least the last two posts about reunion outfits. Because we are all leaving excited messages on Facebook about seeing everyone this weekend.

And one of them left a teasing comment about the T-shirt he'll be wearing and suggesting I coordinate.

I immediately thought, "Oh, God. I seem so narcissistic and shallow. What if they think I'm an idiot? What if I wear one of those dresses and everyone who read the posts smirks?"

So we beat on, boats against the current, no?

And then I stopped myself and thought, "Well, but these are old friends! People who know me!"

Well, sort of. They knew me in high school.

When I was wildly insecure. When I spent so much stupid time lamenting how fat I was, when I couldn't be skinny or pretty enough, because being enough of either of those would make me enough. Would make me worthwhile.

When I was so uncomfortable with myself. When I was flailing about for an anchor, and desperate for approval.

When, most of all, we didn't acknowledge The Crazy in my family. Because that might hurt Dad's Career.

When I walked around believing the family party line, "We're fine! We're normal and fine!"

HAHAHAHAHAHA.

Maybe this is true for everyone, but I've grown so immensely in the intervening years. For me, probably mostly within the last several, really. With, you know, a lot of help.

On the outside, I don't look all that different. Maybe 10 or so pounds heavier, and with more wrinkles and more freckles. And I no longer have a Cyndi Lauper criss-cross shaved into my hair.

I'm still very much about what I'm wearing and "Ooh! I love your hair/purse/jeans!" and "Look! prettyshinysparkly!" and "Does my butt look big in this? No? How about if I bend over this way? Now does it? Well, no, I don't know why anyone would bend that way, but does it?"

But inside, I'm three lifetimes older and wiser. I feel like my dad's suicide attempts over the years and then taking his own life last spring were tantamount to living through war. We survived, and we're stronger, but the scars are deep.

I've developed an immense capacity for understanding some astounding things. My tolerance for unkindness and bullshit is remarkably low. I have much more of a poker face than I used to. But I'm much more likely to speak candidly - not unkindly, but candidly.

I can be really intense. In fact, I have this feeling that even when I'm being totally frivolous, it's with a great deal of intensity.

Can you be intensely frivolous?

So I talk about remarkably shallow things like clothing and jewelry and lip gloss and sparkles. Because Christ, the world is plenty heavy. I could talk about BP and McChrystal and Michelle Rhee and DC schools and overturned gun bans and carbon exchange.

But honestly?

I don't want to.

Also, I think I'm going to wear the Abortion Ring with one of the BDs and the S&M shoes one night. And maybe tomorrow's post will be all about jewelry.

La la la la la! Splishy splashy!

High school reunion dresses 1, 2, and 3

The good news: my husband thinks I'm hot. The bad news: I look tarty in most of his photos.

Also, frivolity warning. If you're looking for anything besides fluff this week, read no further. Likelihood is that it's going to be dresses, shoes, and accessories til Friday.

Whee!

Because if you know me, you know that I could spend all my time talking about these things.

For those of you still with me: I'm shopping my closet and choosing dresses for two nights. I don't need to get all dressy, but I want to. Also, I use far too many colons in this post.

(I accidentally typed fart oo many colons. And HAHAHAHAHA.) Anyway.

So in our house I have three photography options.

1. Take photos of myself in the mirror. Upside: I pose the way I want. Downside: toilet in the background.

2. Ask Betty to take my picture. She is a dear, lovely woman with good design sense, but will invariably cut off the top of your head. (Sorry, Mama, but it's true.)

3. Ask Nick. He takes wonderful pictures. Of other people. Of his wife? Lots of focus on bare body bits. Not so much the dresses.

So, here are the first three options. (Yes. There are A Lot More.)

Back of black dress 1 with shockingly comfortable S&M shoes (BD1+S&M):
Front of BD1:
BD 2 back - the coolest part of this awesome Diane von Furstenburg dress that I got at a consignement store in Princeton for $50:
BD 2 front and take the fucking picture already:
Blue dress with super comf gold platforms (BLD+GP):
The front and black of the blue dress are the same. You can't tell but it's kind of Grecian and drapey.

I realize there's no comparing apples to apples with these pics because "Oh, zzzzzzzz," according to the photographer. Also, by the third dress and 50 millionth picture, I was getting kind of antsy. As evinced by my pseudo-Bharatanatyam.

Pros of BD1: Super stretchy and comfy and boob-supportive, plus I love the criss-crossy back. No cons that I can think of.

Pros of BD2: I LOVE the back. And the front. It drapes so nicely. Cons: You can see my boobs if I bend over.

Pros of Blue dress: Comfy, floaty, and I can wear the gold platforms with it (I think? Can I?). Cons: The top is a wee bit loose and there seems to be no way to wear a bra. Potential girls peeking out incident.

I've got several more dress options for tomorrow. Not sure if I'll be posing with the toilet, with my head cut off, or if there's more trampiness to follow.

Learning opportunities and counting down and eighties and yay!

Jordan is sound asleep and for the moment I'm all alone in the sunny quiet.

It's kind of perfect.

My in-laws just left. We had a very nice visit, with only a few dicey moments.

Like, the day McChrystal got fired - because you know, if you work for as huge an asshole he did, you shouldn't be expected to keep your mouth shut. Because everybody knows what an asshole our current president is.

Learning opportunity: You can choose to be stabby or you can act like you have to pee. And then you can go upstairs and check your email for 10-15 minutes. Nobody is going to ask you if you were constipated when you return.

There was a lot of wine. I started pouring pretty much the minute I got home. It just softened all the pointy edges. I didn't hesitate to keep it pouring.

Learning opportunity: Alcohol is a nice little product in almost every social situation. And the more of it the better in the stressful ones.

Nick leaves this evening for a quick overnight trip. While of course I'm going to miss him, I am so excited to eat dinner all by myself and not make any conversation. Seriously, I'm going to have pasta with maybe a little olive oil and salt and steamed broccoli and maybe read a magazine.

No butter. No cheese. No flour. No cream. No bacon. No ice cream.

None of those are bad on their own or even in some kind of remote moderation. But all together in the same meal, every meal, makes me twitch.

Learning opportunity (ahem, husband): When you can see your arteries hardening and your stomach expanding, it's time to detox.

Also, when you have a pending high school reunion, the last thing you want to be doing is gaining five pounds. No. You want to be as skinny as possible.

Because, you guys, my high school reunion is next weekend!

I've been emailing with two of my dear high school friends, one of whom I haven't seen in a kabillion years, who are coming to stay with us the end of next week. I am so excited!

In fact, now that I think about it, I might subject you to a number of potential reunion outfits - dresses, shoes, accessories, the works. It's not national security decisions, but rather, the kind of frivolity I completely love.

If you're up for it, of course.

Actually, even if you're not. Cause I'm Billy Jean and I'm mad as hell. I'm a woman with a story to tell...OK, I'm not really. I'm Chaka Khan, let me rock you...

Which also reminds me. I need to make 80s playlists! I might solicit your opinions on that as well.

Seriously, you all, I cannot fucking wait.