In line at the Georgetown Lowes a few weeks ago at one of those awkward, in-between movie times, B and I searched out an agreeable film to both of us starting relatively soon. Intolerable Cruelty? Too late. Mystic River? Too gray. Then to my utmost surprise, B looked up at the board and picked the movie I'd least expect. Pieces of April? I smiled and said, "Well it is my favorite genre."

The Thanksgiving-themed film. As it's my favorite holiday, these are my favorite films. Pieces of April, with its gentle bittersweet and warm honesty, did not disappoint. And then a few nights ago, I engaged B in my ritual watching of Home for the Holidays before our very own stressy holiday blitz of two homes and two holidays.

It's just a few hours now until we'll leave for the airport. Six hours of flying time, three airports, one layover, and two very drowsy travellers between here and Denver. I'm excited to sink into the mountains and spend a Merritt-flavored Thanksgiving with the boys. The Tattered Cover, snow and ice, warm conversation, and new traditions. I'm leaving the laptop behind, but I hope to sponge it all up and dish it onto here eventually. Until then-- postcards, ho!

So it turns out that I don't like The West Wing so much when (A) it's being blasted out of the Upstairsies' television speakers at one o'clock in the morning and (2) I'm fall-down tired and trying to sleep atop hot sheets that refuse to stay cool. Who knew Toby yelled so loudly?

However, it did serve as a pretty good lead-in to some talk about 70's and 80's television. And in the end, I believe we named every show on the prime-time and syndicated television of our youth, valiantly attempted to sing the theme from Rockford Files, and had a lot of laughs over "MONROE!".

Today McDonald's ruined my life. Or at least my wacky tourist agenda. I read in this morning's Post that they are closing the redboxes in and around town. Even our dearly beloved in Adams Morgan.

Oh redbox-- we will miss our orders for birch beer or diet cokes just to watch your skillful arm swooping to grab products gently. We will miss your ice cold batteries, preserved for freshness alongside goat-cheese sandwiches. We will miss your Punch Drunk Love dvd rentals (or actually, not really.) We will miss your mesmerizing glow while circling 'round and 'round 18th Street searching for a parking space.

But most of all, we will miss that wacky futureness about you. Our favorite destination and backdrop. Our favorite machine since the likes of HAL.

From: Todd Sonneborn
To: blinker@whirlygirl.com
Sent: Friday, November 07, 2003 4:56 PM
Subject: dyde

umm... blink twice if you can hear me...

I've been down, but I swear I'm not out.

I've called Todd and Erika to give them my feeble excuses in excruciatingly long voice messages-- something about not being chopped up in pieces and stashed under the back steps. Michael called a few weeks back and nudged me with one of his harmless "Hey-no-pressure-but-what's-up-with-whirlygirl?" comments. Things have been chugging, but no one likes an excuse. I'm just moving on. Just like that.