Stop Freaking Out On Me

Amy Stein, Halloween in Harlem

I am back, after a long, sweaty, and sticky weekend spent mostly in the car driving up and down our fair coast. Without air-conditioning. With one working window. And oh, including a 55-pound, panting dog squirming on my lap. Ah, the joys of owning a now-aging, gas-guzzling, pick-up truck. We arrived wilted and returned, if possible, even less unrefreshed.

All in all, it wasn't that bad. In fact, you might even say the trip was good. The boyfriend met the family. The family bought the dinner. The girlfriend, or, me, that is, felt comfortable enough to leave them alone together while she washed up. She returned to find both parties not only unharmed but actually engaging in conversation. To wit, she couldn't get a word in edgewise the rest of the night.

As for the rest of the weekend, it went smashingly well. And when I say smashingly, I do mean smashingly. The boyfriend broke the parent's shower, in addition to the side window on my truck. Though both events were, as far as he assured me, unrelated and accidental, I am considering a padded helmet and an insurance policy for any future southbound trips. Other highlights included: a pod of dolphins, a swarm of bees and a gaggle of siblings.