For months now, my time has been like water in my hands: No matter how I try to hold on, it just slides away. I have spent a very great deal of it at my job. But the rest of it went something like this:

I foraged at the cheese festival in the pouring rain. I planted flowers, and attempted to wrestle into submission the jungle that is our yard (it retains the upper hand). I ate a morally suspect quantity of hummus and discovered the many virtues of the lime. I sprained my ankle in a spectacular demonstration of my complete lack of grace. I became addicted to "Scrubs." I fell head-over-heels in love with Washington, D.C., on my first visit, and upon returning, apparently because I was still interested in looking at large objects, I toured an aircraft carrier. I got to know our plumber pretty well after the pipes backed up while I was in the shower, which would have scarred me for life had not the last thing to go down them been laundry water. I got three-quarters of the way to being awesome at parallel parking; if only I could say the same about my ability to drive a stick. I read eight or nine or ten books and finally got a library card. Recently I had a lovely visit from one of my faraway friends, which consisted largely of gabbing and eating (is there anything better?), and two days ago, I became unable to stop listening to "People," by El Perro del Mar. Two hours ago (i.e., two weeks after everyone else) I finished the seventh Harry Potter book, and now that it's all over, I can say that beneath all the capers and potions and spells, the wands and goblins and broomsticks, the series may be the most deeply human story I have ever read.

That brings us up to now, and now my bed is calling; tomorrow is already here.

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