Sitting in the grass at baseball diamonds.
Folding and putting away an endless stream of laundry.
Buying dresses that I have nowhere to wear.
Reading from my book wherever they'll have me:
In Madison, an assortment of the casserole makers from my old neighborhood sat in the front row while I read. I did not read aloud about my adult assessment of them because there they were, proud and loyal, grateful that my first novel (the early adolescent years set to thinly veiled fiction) was never published. Marco Pogo, Madison's premier live music afficionado and dancer, was there -- his presence is a badge of honor. My childhood neighbor who was sport enough to take me to our junior prom was there with a print-out of our prom picture (even though at the time I stood a foot taller and ditched him at the after-party at Devil's Lake).
In Edina, two young women in high school sat in the front row and asked permission (permission!) to take my picture on their cell phones.
Talking to radio personalities (Lori and Julia and Jill Spiegel at 107.1 are hoots and a half) and parents of ball players.
Reading up on perimenopause, anxiety, addiction, and trying to get through the Edith Wharton bio.
Fielding corrections by the rock and roll police ("Crazy Train" was an Ozzy song, not a Sabbath song; forgive me), the routing police (we were in Iowa to get to Seattle because we decided to avoid mountain driving; Northfield is not where I said it was in my book, forgive me), and the grammar police who all attended private colleges that they feel the need to mention (the charges too numerous to list, again, forgive me).
Gearing up for back to back weekends in the nations' water parks (see anxiety).
Giving myself permission to send up stream of consciousness, ill-formed blogs.
Trying to figure out what the Minnesota Twins need to do to stay on track.
Wondering why Kevin McHale still works for the Minnesota Timberwolves.
Wishing it would rain.
Hoping everyone's having a swell summer, even the haters.