The key to curing Short Fuse Syndrome might be hitting the road, and getting out of town.
I came back to canoodling lovebirds, eager to pass the time snuggling bedside with me, watching Jack Ritter immortalized in the form of a fictional big red dog.
Bad Mom and I cleared our calendars and drove up to Seattle yesterday to meet our blogging neighbors up north. Originally Mrs. G. had planned to host a BBQ in Melanie's honor while she was the Needle's shadow, visiting her aunt. But the Lady of the Manor fell ill - please do send her your best as she is scheduled to leave for New York tomorrow - so we came up with Plan B, which included steep parking rates and a lovely view of Puget Sound.
We ate lunch with Melanie, and then dinner later with some fine bloggers, eating our way through town.
(I'm kicking myself for not snapping a group picture before we dashed out the door. I will do better next time.)
I used to long to meet other writers, readers, people who like to fiddle with words, my own private Paris of like minds. I've struck gold twice: first as a bookseller, next as an unlikely blogger, a word I still don't wear well.
As we pulled away from the city, our bellies full of truffle oiled popcorn and bacon dates, my life felt very full indeed.
(It was a pleasure, ladies. Let's do it again sometime.)