This is the night when a handsome man with a tan, toned abs and no shirt slips into the kitchens of all good little girls and leaves a bottle of margarita mixer, a container of salt and, like, a gallon of Cuervo. It is CousinFest Eve.
The emails are flying fast and furious this morning. The problem is that we don't create new emails; we just keep replying to all on the same email someone started yesterday and so when I open my inbox, I don't know if it's something new or something old that I missed or what. I have about twenty emails that all have the same title.
Carol is at work, Lilly is trying to get to bed (she's a newspaper copy editor and works late); Susie is going to the garden center and then to some mysterious activity called "core strengthening class" which I think must have something to do with exercise, unless it has something to do with apples. I am getting ready for an excursion to SuperTarget with Aisling while Meelyn goes to a swimming party hosted by Kayte's son Matt this afternoon.
I am very excited, but worried that I'll forget to bring the little fan without whose noise I cannot sleep. And my special pillow. And my makeup. Ohhhhh, I might as well face my true fear, which is that Lilly and I will stop for lunch on our way to Carol's and my luggage will escape from the van and go back home without me. That can't really happen, right? If I get this mental going from one state to another, imagine what I'm like when I travel with a passport.
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