The seven elementary schools in my school district converged into one middle school at the beginning of sixth grade, resulting in approximately 500 11-year-olds scrambling darwinistically to establish a new, comfortable, coveted social circle within those first few weeks of autumn. I skillfully inserted myself into a circle filled with Melanie Miller, Michelle Monterrubio, and Denise Sergi-- my 11-year-old equivalent to winning the lottery. Horror-movie sleep-overs and chocolate chip pancakes and Ouija board seances commenced. Once Denise spent so many consecutive days and nights at my house that I snuck her school picture onto our milk carton just before breakfast.

Melanie eventually dyed her hair so many times that it turned silver and Michelle followed the band path a little too seriously for my taste. But Denise and I remained somewhat close through high school, our senior year first period spent together randomly and enthusiastically in Mr. Van Wey's physics class. But as could be said of most everyone I went to high school with-- after graduation we lost touch.

A few weeks ago, during my high school girls' reunion weekend with Laine, Amy, and Debbie, we passed along recently-heard (and in Debbie's case, recently-invented) rumors about most everyone. The story passed briefly that Denise-- last seen three years ago at our 10th reunion-- was supposedly in Atlanta doing something or studying something mathematics-like.

So imagine my surprise when a series of forwarded emails made their way into my Inbox yesterday with the news that Denise is now living in DC. And not just anywhere in DC, but about two blocks from my own apartment. A few strings of text into the ether later, and I have an oldishly-new DC friend just a hop-skip-jump up Wisconsin Avenue.

I should let those milk carton people know.

I'm growing addicted to brisk, early pre-dusk walks in the just-a-few-steps-from-my-apartment Whitehaven/Glover Archbold Park. It's the mysterious chiaroscuro caused by a declining sun, the crisp snapping sounds of twigs and leaves under my feet, the blue jays with peanuts and chocolate labs with tennis balls. The charming community gardens, the intoxicating scent of honeysuckle, the glimpsed home interiors and overheard conversations of Georgetown millionaires.

I'll admit that this town's recent media circus event had me a little jumpy on tonight's walk, my internal mantra one of keeping track of my direction by the sun, sticking to popular paths, spotting trail blazes, and repeating over and over that it's not Rock Creek. Not in the most technical sense.

At least not when I'm talking to Mom.

The disappointment one experiences upon driving across the country sans sleep, pulling into a Krispy Kreme, and finding out they don't open for another hour.
Source: B.

The irritation caused by the zealots from Canton, Ohio on a NOVA program about evolution who refuse to believe in evolution and think that every creature on earth is exactly the same today as it was when the universe was created 4000 years ago.
Source: Todd

How I don't make a very good impression when I bat my boss's frozen lemon sorbet dessert (inside of an actual hollowed-out lemon) around our dining table or decide to order fricassee not because I love it-- or even know what it is-- but instead just because I like saying fricassee.
Source: My boss (jokingly, I might add.)

The happy, happy postman just delivered my free, 12-cup, sleek, black coffee maker and one pound of the delightful Swiss Gevalia coffee. This became a crucial need about two months ago when I put my hand through the bottom of the carafe of my other free, 4-cup, dingy, white coffee maker while washing it for what must have been the 3928th time. And-- oh joy!-- this coffee maker has a timer. The idea of waking up to fresh brewed coffee tomorrow morning has me dreaming of an early breakfast on the patio.

And I'm already picking out new roasts for my next delivery, educated by the months of free Gevalia coffee that Erika kept delivering to me when I was nearly unemployed and couldn't afford the luxuries of good coffee. The Café Möhring from Berlin is a must as it reminds me of the lovely afternoon Erika and I spent there-- think case after case after case of colossal fruit tarts. Guten appetit!

I can't believe I'm about to sink into a hot steaming bath in the latter part of May, but it's the only thing I can imagine removing the chill from my bones. Well, the bath and the glass of Valpollicella that will accompany the bath. The days here look gorgeous, but lately I've had to pass over my favorite skirts and sleeveless sweaters for my new Saturday jeans and olive cashmere sweater. Or maybe it's all in my head. I can't tell anymore.

I had forgotten about the picture of me in one of the South End's miniature doorways, taken by Michael and Jolene on their visit to Boston just before I moved. But when I clicked on his cast of characters, my pea green, fur-collared coat appeared with me inside. A charming second place to the photograph he took of me in the darkness outside Ohio Stadium in October of 1989 when I told him I did not want to be genetically mutated.