Kim came back to Ottawa, and a bunch of us went for lunch, including Susan, which means two of my newest awesomest friends with fabulous hair were in the same place at the same time, creating a magnificent hair singularity the reverberations of which were probably felt for miles around.
Patti biked to lunch in a skirt, confirming her rock star status.
Eve and Kim and I got hopelessly lost after parking in the National Gallery underground parking lot. First we went into an administration building, then we found this lovely treed lot. Eventually we happened upon the front entrance, but we thought we might be lost forever for a while.
Eve climbed on and in a tank at the school barbecue.
Eve helped me get ready for my birthday party.
Pam came to my birthday party. She got really drunk. But she's not the one who barfed all over our back deck.....
Some people just can't hold their breastmilk.
It's totally normal for someone to send their husband home in the middle of a party to bring over their state-of-the-art ice cream maker to make ice cream out of the remaining pear puree from the pear margaritas, right?
Me at my party with my Whorehouse glass. You know -- from the Pier One Whorehouse Collection.
Angus started nightly baseball practices for the competitive summer team. That's two chicken sandwiches, souvlaki and vegetables, and s'more pie. And he ate it all.
My bellflowers burst into bloom.
We had our final book club meeting of the season, where things were very intellectual and sophisticated and there was rarefied discussion and dignity and shit.
You know how I struggle with irony, but I'm pretty sure this is it.