in my tape player... Tape I of Scott's perfect DJ mix   on the page... Donna Tartt The Secret History   into... blowing bubbles during endless conference calls; accent marks; smelling like pears; straight "Charlotte" hair pulled back in a ponytail; skipping out of work early on the sunniest afternoon   definitely not into... five hundred new business cards with my name spelled wrong   nature, in platform sandals... Sunday we're driving down to West Virginia to visit with my dear, dear Uncle Jack. Which means a long walk with Dakota to my favorite dogwood tree. His farm is one of my favorite places in the entire world. The familiarity of the fishing pond. The old shed. The enormous pine trees that I love to walk into. It's the purest part of my childhood. Untouched. Perfect.   Mmmmmmm, Max's... So yesterday, on my way back from the bank, I decided to stop at Max's, proclaimed to be the best homemade ice cream in DC. And though I got the nearly fat free frozen yogurt, I think the they may be right. It was melty and smooth and so natural tasting. Heaven in a waffle cone.   stories for the road... I imagine that I won't even get to the Maryland border before I *have* to pull over and read his stories. No discipline. No will-power. Just cravings. And need. And a desire to get lost in his words.