While I was traveling this weekend I saw a church’s food pantry delivery van with the initials MILF painted in huge bold letters on its side.  The pantry was called Loaves and Fishes, which is a comparatively cool name for one.  The town name (Ida?) began with an I.  The M stood for mobile.  So.  MILF.   I bet the people who drive it get honked at a lot and do not know why.

I had a really great weekend.  I ate roughly six billion calories worth of amazing food and went to the typical places one visits while in Nashville, provided one is with a sister who’s obsessed with the Civil War.  On my way to the Ryman on Saturday night, I fell down and skinned my knee and got all damp with gutter water but managed to immediately scheme my way into the powder room at a posh hotel to clean up.   I was so pleased with myself for sneaking into said bathroom, I hardly minded the indignity of falling down in the street–and while dead sober.  The show was fantastic.  The venue was fantastic.  And the people I sat next to were fantastic.

Afterward the forty-six year old associate professor, her forty-seven-year-old full professor husband, and his forty-two year old childhood neighbor and I went out for a beer.  I gave my number to that last fellow in the list.  In my defense, he has a PhD, curly hair, and what sounds like an amazing record collection.   And I do not really expect him to call: the university where he teaches is about a ten hour drive from here, and who’d really bother calling someone under those circumstances?

I am back at work, which is unfortunate in all ways.  My mom, bless her heart, met me at the door last night with a list of all the people who had messages for me Sunday.   Going to church each Sunday and receiving a series of Please Do This Right Aways doesn’t add to my enthusiasm for church attendance, let me tell you.  Not going to church and receiving said list anyway mildly irritates me.

Next Saturday I have to attend two showers, a bridal luncheon, and a bachelorette party.  I’m also volunteering at a National Park that day.  The bachelorette party is a sleepover.   That seems a shame, really, because if there’s one part of being a part of a wedding party I’d really excel at it’s going from bar to bar to bar.  In any event, I’ll be missing church next Sunday and driving from bachelorette party to some far flung rural church because the committee I’m on is making a visit to another congregation.  Whee.

I just sent out another resume.  While watching a tv cop show I’m pretty sure is Canadian.   Today I’m going to say something positive about my job, as part of my campaign to make things feel less like shit.  So.  Here it is: zucchini bread!

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