The following conversation took place between myself and Heidi this afternoon:

H: “Did you think about what you’re going to wear to the wedding Saturday?”
Me, smothering feelings of dread: “That dress. I told you.”
H: “No! I mean which accessories are you wearing?”
Me: “Uh…I don’t know.”
H: “Hmm. Well, you can come over and we’ll talk about it. How are you wearing your hair?”
Me: “Uh…down. And curly. Like it usually is.”
Me, sensing vague disapproval: “Maybe up? Half up?”
H: “We’ll see what we come up with.”

Heidi is the sort of very feminine, very organized woman who thinks about these things. Rest assured she knows exactly what she’ll be wearing, down to the smallest detail. She likes fashion and makeup. (Oh, god, wedding makeup – I forgot). She thrives at social events, where people are drawn to her because she’s friendly and has a knack for putting everyone at ease.

I’m the opposite. I live in jeans and tees, and – depending on the season – my flipflops or my knock-off Uggs. I’m lucky to remember mascara in the mornings, and my hair is almost always the same. It gives me great, knee-knocking fear to think of wearing a dress and being at an event and being COMPARED TO ALL OF THE OTHER WOMEN. Don’t get me wrong, I can hold my own in social situations – I usually make enough bad jokes that people take pity on me & laugh come off as charming! Oh, who am I kidding, I’m Chandler from ‘Friends’.

Anyway, my point is, it would never have occured to me to start planning my outfit two days in advance. No, I’m the person who waits until the morning of and then runs around wondering why I didn’t start getting ready earlier.

And guess what? I just remembered I haven’t bought a wedding gift. Guess I’m going shopping tomorrow.

Last night was one of those lovely summer evenings, the kind where the air was warm and the sky was smeared with clouds. I have a willow tree in my yard that sheds branches whenever the wind blows, so I invited my nieces over to make s’mores around the fire pit.

I handed out branches for marshmallows and we crowded around the fire. I kept close tabs on Lara, who’s only two and was fascinated enough to keep scooting closer and pointing and shouting, ‘Owange! Owange!’

Brianna and Acadia are fourteen & eleven, and therefore spent the better portion of the evening bickering the way sisters are prone to do. Acadia was wearing a red and blue U.S.A. shirt, which Brianna kept insisting translated to ‘Ugly Sisters of America’. I meant to discourage the teasing but to be honest I was trying not to laugh. It reminded me so much of when Heidi and I were younger, and all we did was argue and shove and create new and unique ways to get each other in trouble with our mother.

Eve, the other toddler, was content to sit and cram chocolate in her face – she refused to add graham crackers or marshmallows, perhaps not wanting to ruin the purity of a Hershey bar? Some children can’t be taught the value of a good snack food.

When it was time to distribute the children back to their various parents, we all had sticky marshmallow fingers and chocolate crumbs around our mouths and collectively smelled like a forest fire. It was one of those memories I’ll savor, a quiet night disrupted by noisy, well-loved brats on a sugar high.

Acadia: “Get out! That’s MY chair!”
Brianna, giggling: “No. Go get your own.”
Acadia, shoving her: “That IS mine. Get off.”
Me: “For god’s sake, there’s THREE OTHER IDENTICAL EMPTY CHAIRS!”
Acadia: “But that one is mine!”
Brianna: “Not anymore.”

And then I started thinking to myself how twenty-seven is really too young to have kids of my own, it’s probably best to wait until I’m forty. Or dead.

It’s 6:49 IN THE MORNING. I’m still on vacation and therefore face-down in bed, enjoying the texture of my pillow. The phone rings. I immediately assume it’s my friend B, calling to make some last-minute adjustment to our plans for the day – which include my babysitting her kids from eight to one, and then a quick jaunt out of town.

I wonder if she has a death wish I’m not aware of while I stagger out of bed to answer it. Too late. Dial tone sounds noisily in my ear. I try to call back, but no one answers. I grumble unkind things under my breath and crawl back into bed for my remaining thirteen minutes.

6:59 AM – the phone rings AGAIN. I have wisely brought it into bed with me and answer on the first ring, fully prepared to tell B to stop calling lest I gnaw the delicate flesh from her dialing finger.

My grandma: “Hi.”
Me, incredulously: “HELLO. Did you call me ten minutes ago?”
Grams: “Yes.”
Me: “I…but…it’s not even seven in the morning!”
Grams: “I know, but I knew you were going to babysit for B, and I needed to ask about my hedge clippers.”
Me, in a voice only bats can hear: “Your HEDGE CLIPPERS?”
Grams: “Yes, you borrowed them and I need them back.”

At this point we pause briefly in the story and I explain to you, the reader, that about two weeks ago we had a similar conversation – she insisted I borrowed her godforsaken hedge clippers (I ASKED to, but never got around to it) and I explained that I didn’t have them and she didn’t believe me and then she found them on her porch right where she left them. I STILL have not borrowed the stupid hedge clippers (nor will I EVER).

Me, still outraged by the immoral hour of this phone call: “First of all, I don’t have to be at B’s until EIGHT. EIGHT.”
Grams: “Well, I just wanted to make sure I got them back.”
Me: “Secondly, I didn’t borrow your hedge clippers.”
Grams, in a voice only bats can hear: “YES YOU DID.”
Me, while reaching for a razor to END MY SUFFERING: “I never borrowed them. I asked but didn’t take them.”
Grams: “Fine!” CLICK.

I’m going to put a homing device on those damn clippers, and possibly some glitter so they’re more eye-catching. AND THEN I’M GOING BACK TO BED.

Yesterday was a great day to go the lake – so I did. I took a cooler, some sunblock, & my iPod and went to relax and get away from people for a while.

I picked a great spot with a little campfire and a tree for some shade – there was even a dirt road so I could park my car closer to the water & not have to haul the cooler (my cooler has no handle or wheels) quite so far. EXCEPT.

The ‘road’ was narrow and sort of steep, and there wasn’t any great place to park at the bottom. I considered this – and the fact that my 1997 Mercury Sable has no four-wheel drive and probably isn’t designed for anything that isn’t paved – while I manuvered my way to the bottom.

Fast forward three hours after I lazed and swam and tanned to my heart’s content. I tried to leave and discovered that the ‘rocks’ I was parked on were actually a thin layer of pebbles covering a whole LOT of sand. Driving forward got my tires stuck. So did going in reverse. I remained calm. I got out of the car and managed to dig myself out a little, then tried to leave again. Doing this only put my car closer to last little hill before the lake, and so I quit.

Now then: most of you know I don’t own a cell phone. I’m anti-technology for the most part, and some people have such rude mobile phone manners that I don’t even like looking at the damn things. In this instance, having a phone would have been good. Because instead of dialing up the sheriff’s office and begging one of my very generous co-workers to come to my rescue with four-wheel drive & a tow rope, I had to walk almost two miles through snake-infested territory (NOT an exaggeration, prairie rattlers are prominent in the area) to the Marina to use their phone.

UGH. The whole time (it actually didn’t take that long since I was really pissed at myself and therefore walking like a mad-woman) I was alternatively berating myself for being stupid & scanning frantically for sun-bathing snakes.

I waited at the Marina for the sheriff to arrive (he brought his wife, whom I love but I felt terrible because I’d obviously interrupted their dinner), and then we drove back to the site of what I’m referring to as the ‘unfortunate incident’. He looked at the location of my car (and probably all the ruts I made trying to get out) and then at me, and his expression was one of utter disbelief.

His wife asked if there was anything she could do to help, and his response was: “Yeah. Pray.”

It seems funny now, but at the time I was thinking, good idea. The short version: He got stuck trying to unstick me. And then had to call for back-up (from the same officer who had to help me break into my house a few nights ago after I lost my keys, and when HE got there he looked at the car and then at me and said, ‘If it isn’t one thing it’s another, huh?’ YES. IT IS).

Basically, it took TWO HOURS and TWO vehicles to get my car back on the road where it belonged. I was so tried and dirty by the time I got home that I showered and collapsed into bed. Ask me if I’ll ever try something that stupid again – on second thought, don’t, because the answer is probably YES.