The Three S's Reduced To Two

[So others have posted more thoroughly (hello, gorgeous) and entertainingly (check out the photos, that's me in gray with my back to the camera, talking to Michael on the porch swing) about what the housewarming in Sacramento was like. (OK, on a 90+ Fahrenheit day, does any house need to be further "warmed?" I was sweating more than any pig I've ever seen at any county fair.) It's old news by now; 48 hours is, like, an eternity in the Blogverse. All I can add is that good company made the drive to Sacramento fly by; our state capital is leafier and more homey than I remember (is there a nicer stretch of street-level urban state highway than Freeport Boulevard?); thrilled to see Aaron again and meet that utterly charming hubby of his; and the rest you know. It had been since 9/10/01 that I'd been to an event to which I was invited primarily because I write online, and it looks as though this may change. And, yes, cherie, it was I who spilled your sangria.]

[That was just the beginning. As John and I continue to try to be extra nice to one another, I got a call yesterday afternoon from Rafe, who swooped into town last week from Seattle. He'd been visiting family on the Central Coast, and by Sunday, he needed a little alcohol therapy from me; who was I to say no? Our Polk Street crawl was almost like the messy old days when we'd be the scourges of Santa Barbara's Gold Coast bar's beer busts - suds, sarcasm, yes, yes, yes; sleazy sex to be regretted later, no no no! We finished early enough that I got the hangover out of the way last night before retiring, and feel ready to wrestle bears today. Second thought, in this heat, I'd rather wrestle an air mattress in a swimming pool, if no one minds.]

[School starts tomorrow. Summer vacation ends here.]

Previously Next

[Later: Oh, I forgot to mention the bit with Rafe that ties into another thing about which I've been meaning to comment. Like many coastal Americans, Rafe has a disdain of "flyover country," which to him is anything east of the Coast Ranges and west of the Hudson River. (I make no comment; I've had brilliant times in what Willard Scott always used to call "the Nation's Midsection.") He calls this, alternatively "the Midwest" or "Alabama." We enjoyed poking a bit of fun at the Camellia State's current Ten Commandments brouhaha (took my mind off my state's own spectacular lunacy for a moment), and it again occurred to me how funny it was that Alabama, which has, let's face it, a rather conservative reputation, put Helen Keller on its quarter. People think of Keller as this courageous but ultimately...what's the word? harmless? activist for people who shared her disabilities. I suspect many Alabamians would be taken aback to discover what a radical socialist she was; I know I was surprised when I first read Lies My Teacher told Me. Or maybe there was hearty debate; I hardly EVER think about Alabama, neither the state, nor the state of mind.]