Actually...

As it turns out, Baltimore City stole my car. Oops. When we arrived at the impound lot the first time, under advisement of a mistaken Lieutenant, we were asked to pay in excess of $500 to free my car. You can bet we weren't biting. Instead, I asked to visit the car so I could retrieve my charger. I wasn't sure if I locked the door.

Yesterday, after The Boy worked his magic on Brown from the Parking Department, we went to rescue the car. Relieved to see a zero balance, but irked that that was all, I rode in a Cavalier with two other ladies to get my car. I removed the WARNING notice from the windshield, smirking at the irony it represented. But when I got inside, I noticed cds and various paraphernalia all over the floor and seats. My car had been ransacked. Thankfully, it appears my musical tastes do not mesh well with that of the perpetrators, so I don't think I'm missing anything. And yet, all I can say is, "Yeah, but still."

In between the runaround, many loved ones descended upon The Home. Amber's little girl scampered around squealing at Mosotos, pushing his face and repeating "Off, puppy," every time he got too close. I stayed up talking to Tara until 3:00. We listened to Passion songs while cooking and baking and assembling favors, and it felt like college. Until I walked upstairs to give the kid a bath with her Little People. There wasn't really any of that in college.

The Boy golfed with his dad and I had a heart to heart with The Stepmother on the way to my shower. 90 percent of the people on the list shocked me with their attendance. It was a surreal haze of faces, most of whom I could have talked to for hours. I tried to build bridges and introduce; I tried to spend time with each one. But of course I failed. In keeping with my Lent sacrifice, I worked hard to ignore the chocolate fondue fountain everyone else focused on. I answered embarrassing questions about The Boy. "How does she know that already?" One girl remarked, when I answered that The Boy prefers that toothpaste be squeezed from the bottom up. I wondered why that question was considered more personal than how many kids he wants or who his hero is. I got those right too.

Opening gifts in front of those who gave them to me made me sweat. True, I was stoked out of my mind about my new Calphalon Anodized cookware, but who else would be? I would glance at my mom while holding a coffee grinder shrugging, "Am I really supposed to pass this around?" It felt self-indulgent. It felt weird. Lots of sweat and nervous laughter. And then it was over and we loaded way too many presents into the trunk and backseat of Clarice. Yesterday, just three days after seeing our new car, The Boy claims it's his favorite car he's ever owned, "except for the SPG" whose greatness currently sits locked in a basement in Connecticut. Of course. Except for that.

We discovered a dinner theatre in Baltimore with the parents and c'est ca. Mosotos was glad to have his house and parents back to himself; we were unnerved to see our house in far worse condition than it was on Friday. Golf clubs, Pyrex, pillows and towels and a collander crowd the dining room. My car is marked with yellow numbers on the glass and a thick caking of dust everywhere else. The Boy is driving friends around in Clarice. I guess things are getting back to normal.

Mosotos has begun to prefer cement and steel over grass and trees. When we first picked him up, I remember walking him deep into the woods to relieve himself. Last time we took him to the vet, he peed on the sidewalk. And now, in the park, he sniffs trees, but he prefers lightposts. I used to stop him. But I figure, if Baltimore can steal my car, let him pee on their lightposts. They're really just city trees anyway, and after this debacle, I don't blame him.