Memory is 83% Full

Think I could get that emblazoned on a t-shirt? My cell phone announced this to me today, and I really wish I could act like my cell phone. Just quit with no apology when I'm tuckered out, especially if I've been caught in the rain. Free of guilt, hang up on a person I'm tired of listening to. Without explanation, end a call when I'm in the middle of Wal-Mart with my arms full of Excedrin and Skintimate and Balance bars. If you asked me what animal I'd want to be the question would go unanswered, because really, who in their right mind would ever want to be an animal? But if you asked me what electronic device I'd want to be, it would be a cell phone. In reality, I'm probably more of an iPod, but whatever (but not one like mine which apparently has laryngitis and suddenly refuses to scroll. Blast the entire concept of the circular scroll. I never bought into that--always longed for arrows. Way to go, Apple.)

Yesterday I had my first contact-by-Googling experience. See? I knew there were people out there looking for me! This is why I hesitate to change my name when I get married. Because what if someone needs to find me? The Boy is incapable of understanding this concept, arguing that if a person doesn't know I got married then they aren't close enough to me to be looking for me anyway. But I can think of a bunch of girls from high school or college I wouldn't mind talking to again, whom I'd probably never be able to find because they are now hyphenated. On a related note, these childhood and high school friends are coming out of the woodwork. After my CBG experience yesterday, I ran into one of my high school teachers. That's the second time in as many weeks. I've been back from college for three years, so why is all of this happening now?

This weekend we will take New England by storm/on bald tires. I guess, then, that it is we who might be taken by storm. (Honestly, how John Kerry does that sentence sound? "Who among us does not foster an appreciation for NASCAR?" Sincerest apologies all around. Apologies for everyone.) Tomorrow we have a one-year-old's birthday party to attend, and I think we are on track to set the world record for one-year-old's soirees this year. Certainly we'll set the record for miles logged in order to attend said blessed events. It's a pool party. Thus, I will be meeting The Boy's grandparents for the first time wearing a bathing suit. Because God was experimenting when He stitched me together, the purchasing and subsequent wearing of bathing suits has never been pleasant. Neither are the looks and snide remarks shot my way when I'm engaged in these acts. There just is no way I've discovered yet to avoid looking a) pregnant, or b) distractingly buoyant. I think that, given the circumstances, appearing pregnant would be far worse, so I have resigned myself to meeting the G-Unit for the first time looking like a flotation device. Yesssssss. Because nothing says, "I love your grandson" quite like cleavage and low-rise boy shorts. Adding to my weekend glee and anticipation, I will be accompanying The Boy's mother to church on Sunday, marking her first trip in many years and quite certainly her first experience with all things Protestant. He will be golfing. (Makes him sound gross, but it was just a prior commitment.) I already feel like an ambassador. If I make it through the experience successfully, I think I'll apply to the State department. Kids, I'll move mountains. (Please just forward your request via comment or e-mail re: specific mountains you'd like moved. I'm thinking of starting in the Appalachians. But don't tell Joyce Brown or App State-- I'd rather it be a surprise.)

And now, your moment of Zen: "Paris [Hilton] tried unsuccessfully to position new BFF Kimberly Stewart as Nicole's replacement by posing with her at numerous red carpet events and dropping less-than-subtle hints about their planned partnership. Kim, she of the not-found-in-nature blond locks and rich Corinthian leather-hued skin, would have had to carve out time from her busy schedule of being Rod Stewart's daughter in order to participate." --Kat Giantis