The danger of the home office: weekdays blend with weekends. My desk is always here, my computer is almost always on, and those ubiquitous piles of editing and design like to taunt.

But though today I am trying to do a bit of work, I'm also trying to pay homage to the weekend distinction. I've turned up my stereo past the normal you-can-listen-and-not-have-to-run-to-turn-down-the-stereo-when-the-phone-rings level. I haven't opened Outlook to check for emails. And the 3:30pm bath isn't a luxury, it's a must.

The best part about a Saturday at home: waking up amid the whiteness of morning and not having to immediately leave my bed to turn on the computer. Since I put the white daisy sheets on my bed and uncovered my white comforter, I find mornings blissfully light and airy feeling. I always thought I was a dark, bold sheet person-- all navys and burgundys-- and now suddenly I realize the sweetness of waking up in white. This morning I woke up and read in near silence for an hour and a half-- only the whir of the fan to keep me company. I found myself napping for short bits in between sips of Honduran coffee and Parisian wisdom, and by the time I got out of bed it was nearly noon.

Sadly, not in and of itself an enormous weekday/ weekend distinction-- but the lack of guilt was enthusiastically welcomed.

President George W. Bush addressed the Ohio State University graduating class of 2002 this morning in the Ohio Stadium. I knew this whole event was the work of my friend, Brian, even before it was confirmed by Noel seeing him interviewed on the Columbus news. So this past Tuesday I shot Brian the following quick email: "$10 to you if you can work Texas Straw Hat into Bush's commencement address at OSU this Friday."

Now I'm looking for a transcript so that I can settle potential debts.

When I got halfway to the swing and realized I didn't have any bug spray on, I knew I wouldn't last long. But that's when I got a whole new idea-- a short swing and a long walk down into the pulse of Georgetown to pick up the new Belle and Sebastian record at Olsson's Books and Music.

But at the first sign of an empty window and neon card stock flyers advertising a 25% off store-closing sale, I knew I wouldn't find any new Belle and Sebastian records. I stopped outside the store and looked in for a few moments. How could they close? I wasn't happy with stories about lost leases and the lack of satisfactory Georgetown spaces-- this was my little indie haven amidst all of the daddy's plastic of M Street. My little place for a quick music fix, a last minute gift purchase, the best art book remainders. B and I had his zoo pictures developed at the adjoining Ritz Camera and he bought his camera bag here-- this store couldn't close. It's part of relationship history-- with landmark stature.

I stepped into the busy store and walked around the half-empty shelves, through the aisles lit with deadening fluorescent bulbs. And then I was drawn to the sale CDs. A great collection of Johnny Mercer standards for $5. A remixed disc of Bebel Gilberto songs for $7. And a double-disc Lyle Lovett with moody black-and-white cover art-- with no less than five songs with "Texas" in the title--for $9. I thought Belle and Sebast-who? This was treasure.

Sure, the Rosslyn store isn't far away. Just across the bridge, really. But though I'm brimming with musical treasure now, any day now I'm sure to crave the new Aden or Pedro the Lion close to 11pm, and my little comfort just a few blocks South on Wisconsin Avenue won't be there to squelch my thirst.

At least when it happens, I'll have Lyle. To lament. And to comfort.

My deliverable for the National Cancer Institute is out the door-- and now so am I. To the swings. And then to pack. And then to get dressed up for David's wedding. And then to drive back to Ohio for Allison's graduation party, a trip to the Village, and to hand wash my car in my parents' driveway-- the way cars are supposed to be washed.

Going... Going...

*Poof*

I logged onto my email this morning to find that Jeffrey had sent me a photograph of Douglas Coupland holding a pink tiara, with the accompanying note: "In my seemingly never ending (though brand new) quest to provide you with things you don't see everyday, I give you... Douglas Coupland holding a tiara."

I trumped him with the story behind the photograph-- snapped by some marjorie-margaret-marla woman-- just before my own personal five minutes in hell with Mr. Coupland a few years ago during his Miss Wyoming book tour.

But Jeffrey vows to "flummox [me] yet!" I dare to say that morning email checks just got a lot more random.

I received one of those bright pink copies of The Bad Girl's Guide to the Open Road from my friend, Melanie, in today's mail. Now that she's settled into the single life in San Francisco, I can't help but salivate at the prospect of using my mandatory vacation days to drive out to see her.

It reminds me of this huge billboard that I see on I-70 in Pennsylvania every time I drive back to Ohio to see my family-- mimicking an interstate highway road sign, it reads, "San Francisco... 2640 miles." I smile each time I pass it, always giving it at least a smidgen of thought.

After all, anything is possible.

Tonight, my after-work hike took me down the winding, narrow path of Dumbarton Oaks Park. Next, it carried me along a stone-lined creek with blue jays in nearly every tree. And then finally, it led me up a steep steep steep hill to the world's most perfect swing set in Montrose Park.

At that moment, I defined the word "glee."

Erika said that she didn't mind being completely out of gas and stranded just outside of Great Falls National Park, VA-- about 4 or 5 miles from the nearest gas station-- because she'd never run out of gas before and was curious about the experience.

Unfortunately, I'd already used that excuse.

Thankfully, there was someone lingering nearby at a stop sign, in search of someone to shower with a selfless, good deed.