Mike & Carrie up and left us. Moved to Austin. Poo. A little older and very respectable, you wouldnt guess how spontaneous and extremely funny they are. Nothing predictable about them. We didnt see them nearly enough when they were here, I guess 'cuz they lived an hour away. Sigh. I miss them.

The night before they left, their friend Jen & her beau threw a farewell dinner party in their honor. Scott and I groomed ourselves and drove out to Jen's beautiful home right off the Severn River. I had only met Jen a few times and while I like her, I've always felt like a snotty-nosed spaz around her. She's extremely put-together and opinionated.

As we walked up the brick entrance, I felt somewhat adequate in my dress and with my side dish, badly needing refrigeration after the long drive. We were greeted by a gaggle of folks we'd never met, namely a blond Lilly-Pulitzer mommy and balding husband. Carrie came to the rescue and decided I was having a tall rum & diet coke along with her.

Still clutching my side-dish, having not yet touched my rum tumbler, I saw our hostess through the glass door, passing warm appetizers to the guests on her sizeable deck. Everything was perfect, dinner was looking to be impeccably timed.

I took it upon myself to put my dish in the refrigerator. The second I pulled the door back, it was like an oil luge: a huge glass dish slid right out at me and promptly splattered its contents all over my feet and the kitchen floor. Vrrrrlllp! And it was loud when the dish hit (but didnt break). A medley of tomatoes, lots of olive oil, basil, black olives and a very pungent cheese.

It was like a record skipped. Lilly-mommy gasped. Carrie, only inches away, started laughing, then said, quiet solemnly, in loud whisper: "JEN IS GOING TO FREAK." I looked out to the deck, where the poised hostess poured wine to a guest, oblivious. I thought about leaving. I realized I had to come clean and tell the hostess what happened. I swallowed hard.

Without wasting any time, Carrie bent down and began scooping the big, greasy tomatoes from the kitchen tiles back into the dish. Not what I expected. "She will never have to know." At that moment, I adored her more than ever-- Lilly turned away. I looked at the resident cats, licking themselves nearby, and felt a little queazy, then joined her.

With only seconds to spare, we'd saved nearly all of the contents and wiped away the stinky oil slick. We stared down at the dish as we replaced the slimy saran wrap, it looked like someone had taken a shower with it and put it back. Limp and way too "mixed". We hid any evidence.

I watched as people served themselves generous helpings of the tomato mix-up, and felt a little guilty. Jen served the courses, and the appropriate wines with each, and even a homemade desert. Lilly and the other lillies all took their sleepy children home, and the six of us remained. I didnt finish my tumbler and enjoyed listening to all the stories Mike & Carrie were sharing, and also to Jen's boyfriend rip the most collossal farts I'd ever heard. He would say "Whew, its the wine" (wine?) and he'd pour himself another. Scott's eyes were round as saucers. Amazing.

Its Friday. This week I helped birth two documents of 80-page lengths and presented some crazy portal-project..and actually sounded like I knew what I was saying. Monumental!

Continuing my accomplishment streak, I took some papers to our mortgage guy for some sort of financial rearrangements that by some miracle give us more money. Real estate. Mindblowing. We need it, as we are to move out of rat town and into a home soon.

The sun was shining, I'd just finished lunch with my boss and I was wearing my most favorite old boots. I walked into the mortgage-office high-rise, 2 block from my office, and entered Planet Zulu.

I stopped at the front desk where two large security people were affixed, and announced my destination. Blank stares. I was directed to sign in, and did so, then I asked which floor I needed to go to.

"Mrrrpppphhth."

Exasperatedly, she repeated herself until I knew what number she was saying. I stepped into the open elevator, felt several people shuffle in behind me and made my floor selection.

I noticed we were skyrocketing to the top. Way past my floor. I pushed my button again, which I obviously needed special access to, and sighed. One stop. Up, up. Another. It was finally me and two men, and the one man piped up "Well, heh-heh, Its Friday!" and then stepped out from behind me to get off, shrugged his shoulders and said "I dunno, guess its kharma", and the doors closed. So, I have to make 32 stops because of.. kharma?

The other guy just mumbled something else about it being Friday, shuffled his feet and looked sheepish.

I plummeted back down to the lobby and walked up to the same large woman and asked about access.

Long pause. "Which elevator did you get on?" I pointed to the closest one. She pulled in a huge breath and said bluntly, "You took the express elevator", exhaled and rolled her eyes far back in her head. A few drab folks were collecting in the lobby, looking half-awake, observing.

"Ohhhh," and I turned to notice a row of exactly similar, un-marked elevator doors. Only a small, gold light fixture above each.

"Is there a specific elevator I should take?" She shot her collegue a look and peeled herself off her seat. She waddled me over to the same elevator, one that was filling up with the drab people. She waved the pass over the controls and nearly struck me with her powerful shoulder on her return to her throne.

Incredulous, I turned to the pale people next to me and said aasked if this was, in fact, the express elevator. "Frrnrnnnthth", and "I dunno", and then moments later "Wull, its Friday!"

I made it to my destination and sat in a quiet lobby while the receptionist made copies of my papers, and went to get our mortgage man. Who never emerged. The walls were painted white with a few footmarks on the closet door. In the back, I heard a guy say n a booming voice: "Well, they said its not Lyme's disease." Silence. A clock ticked.

I can't put this down. Gary, Rock on! Its bringing back a flood of first-city-apartment memories. Which are not altogether excruciating. But mostly.

For example, my mind keeps flashing back to a specific time where I was standing in the middle of a dusty lot next to a set of bleak, industrial storage units in south SF. At the time, the home of this bunch. The sun was brilliant, the music loud. I was surrounded by pale skin, tattoos and booze, and, happily, the object of my affection, Kevin. I sucked down un-tasty keg beers, stomach flip-flopping when he would walk in and out of his STORAGE UNIT where he lived, underneath the skate ramp and through the lab, to get more party supplies.

Let me stop here to mention: I do not look entirely unlike Holly Hobbie with sandy hair and freckles. I am from Annapolis, the sailing capital, the PREPPY capital of the nation! How did I get there? WIth my dusty ill-fitting combat boots? Dreamy-eyed over a guy (albeit very handsome) who spoke in mono-syllables and blew crap up?

He hadn't enirely acknowledged me yet, but I was strangely confident, as I looked down at my torn cut-offs and black boots. By the time the main event took place, I was lubricated enough to impress him with my bogus knowlege of Mudhoney and Jesus Lizard, but unfortunately, it was too late and way too loud for him to hear me. But who needs to talk when there's monolithic robots on fire?

I guess I did something right, combat-hobbie did manage to win his attentions, beginning a long, meaningful relationship which lasted about as long as it took for me to figure out where the bathroom was. Or, maybe the second time. Yik.

In the best-love-story-ever department: this takes the cake! Sara is engaged to the most handsome and kindest gent there ever was. Also happens to be her long-time best friend and now-famous sculptor/artist (Rob-- at the Whitney!). This story couldnt have had a happier ending. Er, beginning. This makes me happy, like, bubble-over happy.

The fall makes me absolutely crazy. I love it.

Still warmed by the recent wedding-reunioning, I rostered up a ladies' luncheon with my three oldest girlfriends again. [I obviously managed to forgive them for putting the one and only slide of me into the now-mandatory rehearsal-diner-video-montage: me with bobbed hair and curled bangs, sickening forced-smile, in purple guess jeans. Displayed to all in large format. Mind you, they all appeared many times over, looking very cute. Punishment of some sort, I am sure.]

Since it is fall-crazy time for me, I was happy to driving the hour or so over to the eastern shore where we were to meet. The country roads all smelled like wet leaves and fireplaces. Ah. Out of Struggletown. Mission accomplished.

Sally had cooked us an incredible lunch, we all four picked right up where we left off. Damn. Those girls are fun-ny. This may have been my favorite:

Firstly, any story Whit tells me of her extremely corporate job thrills me. She's never had a desk-job of this nature, so her perceptions are hilarious.

A meeting was called for the entire company. She shuffled in, quietly grabbed a seat and awaited the outcome. The top banana entered, and with a lot of posturing explained that the company now had a new mascot. Of large symbolism.

At the appropriate queue, a door was opened and an employee entered with his bulldog on a leash. The bulldog panted and nervously looked around the room. He had a spiked collar on. There was applause. After a few minutes the dogowner asked if he could leave? With the grave nod of approval, he picked his dog up, put him under his arm, and left.

Now, the actual mascot was not so much this guy's pet, but moreover: the spiked collar. From what I could understand, the company's new manta became: Spike It! Add Value! Hey, if your client asks for some research, give it to them, but also go a little beyond. Here's your study, and hey, I also attached some data I compiled about Woodchucks! Enjoy! Even better? Somehow, its spelled with a q. Chloe really spiqued it last week with the Woodchuck info! I want you all to follow her lead.

Whit assured me this was not a joke. Its just to good to be true. Spique it! I just picture her, in a blazer, all fired up about adding value, spiqueing the crap out of a volleyball. Followed by a series of high-fives and chest bumps. YEAH! DATA!

She also assured me she never misses an opportunity to spique the hell out of the term. Roger? Didn't you tell them this will cost an additional $15K in adnvance? Silence. Way to spique it, Rog.

Other humorous news: Sally's new house out in the boonies is adorable. Sally's neighbors are not. When they first moved in, she was greeted my a large man who's T-shirt read in big letters: YOUR SHIT IS MY BREAD AND BUTTER. He's a plumber, of course. I kept asking Sally to pass me the shit butter. He pointed out that his daughter and SAlly's daughter were about the same age, and generously offered to "smack the crap out of her [daughter]" if she was acting up, if in return Sally would do the same to her daughter. Another neighbor put in a concrete course in the back yard to start training their little boy now for Nascar.

Rich.

Just returned from two back-to-back weddings, polar opposite in nature.

One, a best friend's beautiful, low-key beach wedding. Intimate, original. I was humiliated to find that I'd parked Scott and myself at the ye olde Inn where the only other room was occupied by the bride & groom. Oops. What that really meant that Scott got kicked out all day Saturday and the ladeez took over-- it was chaos. Champagne, neices doing "make-up" (I looked like Pat Benatar. Not cool), hairdryers. Elders in undies. I was told that Spanx never die, as they are like cockroaches. I was completely giddy by 1:20 pm.

The other, my husband's cousin's Big Southern Wedding in the Big Church with Big Country Club reception. They were Barbie and Ken, in their early-twenties, rehearsed, perky. The bridesmaids were identical size 2s. The reception had a DJ with all requisite shout-outs. "Calling all redheads! Lets see all redheads on the dance floor!", bouquet toss, garter drill. There was even a choco-fountain that I unknowingly was parked near. I kept telling everyone my red wine smelled like chocolate. Hic.

Rather anticlimactic, being back at hum-drum work. A few things have been keeping me entertained, however:

1. My husband calls my scooter Rico. No idea why.
2. Ryan just dared to pull this stunt right by my desk.
3. John's growing a full-fledged 'stache.

What's cooler than being a rock star? This! I wish I could go the reading. Hooray, Paul!