Friday:

We’re drinking margaritas out of low-slung glass bowls, chatting away with some of the nicest people I’ve ever been lucky enough to meet through the internet. I introduce a story with an offhand comment about how “I was a chatty kid.” “You, chatty? No! Impossible!” says Sweets, and I realize: I have been totally teasingly called out on my chatterbox tendencies by a person who I’m hanging out with for only the third time. This is either totally mortifying or totally awesome.

Saturday:

Sitting by the lake checking out the air show, the blue angels roar overhead in perfect v-formation. Thirty seconds later, a small group of geese thinks “What’s the big deal? That’s not so hard!” and to prove the point flies over the exact same spot, in the exact same formation. Charmed, the audience bursts into applause.

Sunday:

We wake up early and skip our planned workout in favor of one of our favorite brunch spots, run by a fairly innocuous-seeming cult. (No, really. Truly.) We arrive to find a sign in the window: “Closed for our August retreat to celebrate [our guru’s] birthday.  See you September 2!” But! But! We were counting on delicious french toast! Why does the cult-run brunch place always close right when our french toast needs are most acute? And why is it that EVERY SINGLE PERSON IN THE WORLD, even my favorite purveyors of french toast, seem to be conspiring to rub it in about how awesome it is to take vacation in August?

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