Every Thursday night, I have a “date” with my friend Erin. At 6:58, I start up my computer, and wander around trying to find a wireless signal (I’m cheap, I borrow wifi from my neighbors–don’t judge me). I set my laptop in my lap (clever, I know), log-in to Facebook, and wait for Erin to arrive.

I don’t think I’ve actually seen Erin in person in nearly eight years. We worked at a camp together when we were in college. In my mind, Erin was this incredible, beautiful, vivacious person–and I was shy and awkward and uncomfortable in my own skin.

In the years following college, in the flurry of marrying and having a family (her) and moving and moving (me) we lost touch. But around a year ago, thanks to the miracle of social media, we reconnected. And every week, I look forward to our chats.

After eight years, we’ve had a lot of catching up to do. But we have moved past the “where do you live and what are you dong” to “tell me about your life.” Some weeks we have difficult discussions, about hard relationships and grief and fear. Other weeks we ask each other mundane questions that inevitably end with the phrase “Oh my gosh, me too!”

In Erin, I have found a true friend. Someone I trust and admire. I hope that she has found a similar friend in me.

We have both shared so deeply that sometimes we pause and say “I can’t believe I told you that.”

And in our honesty, we have moved past beautiful and vivacious (her) and shy and awkward (me), to falling down and getting back up (us).

So every Thursday night, after our chat is done, I close my laptop, stand up and stretch, and feel a little less alone.

(Sorry for the lack of posting lately. I’m trying folks! I’ll have some news coming up soon, but until then, I’m trying to get back on track!)

I’ll admit it. In general, guys are better drivers than girls. There are absolutely exceptions to that rule. But I’ve found that the majority of the time, the rule holds true. Maybe it’s just how our brains are wired. Maybe something to do with hand/eye/foot coordination?

Wanna hear a story that typifies this rule? (And don’t you love the word typifies?) Well of course you do! That’s why you’re here, right?

When I was 15, I began taking a driver’s ed class through my high school. Coach Wilkerson was our teacher. That man terrified me. He was cruel. He made you parallel park between the principal and vice principal’s cars. He taught you how to back into a parking spot at the police station. He quizzed you on driving rules as you whizzed down the highway. But the worst was the last day of class. It was the thing that high school legends are made of.

I went first on that fateful day. Charles, my driving partner sat in the backseat, calm and collected. I sat in the front, with Coach Wilkerson at my side. He had the radio tuned to a local country music station. I drove to the top of a hill, a line of cones dotting the parking lot below me. Coach Wilkerson reached over and slowly lifted the armrest that separated us.

I put it back down.

He lifted it.

I put it back down.

He lifted it, and threatened to fail me.

I left it up.

He edged nearer, his foot moving closer to the gas. Suddenly the car lurched down the hill, his foot mashed down on the pedal. I screamed, trying desperately to dodge the cones in front of me. Thump thump. Cones flew out from underneath the car.

“THAT COULD HAVE BEEN A CHILD!” yelled Coach Wilkerson.

“I DIDN’T MEAN TO KILL IT!” I yelled back, my hands shaking on the steering wheel.

“That was just to show you that you don’t have control when you drive too fast,” Coach Wilkerson said calmly, turning up the radio so he could hear Garth Brooks over my ragged breathing.

Charles and I then switched seats. I walked around as Charles smiled sympathetically and I righted the crumpled children cones that surrounded the car. I sulked in the backseat as Charles effortlessly drove the car between the cones. He didn’t kill one innocent child. Coach Wilkerson patted him on the shoulder, and the two harmonized to the closing lines of “Unanswered Prayers.”

At least, that’s how I remember it.

I ended up with a B in driver’s ed, and I got my learner’s permit a few weeks later.

And traffic cones still give me nightmares.

I think I would like to start a new fourth of July tradition.

Of course, there will be fireworks and food (mmmm, gelato!)

But there will also be insanely big eagle statues and lots of pretty flowers.

There will be giant cars made out of Legos.

Incredible mountains and the most fabulous smelling roses ever.

And the most important factor–friends. Really great, incredible friends.

God bless America

Do you ever just have one of those near-perfect weekends? Where you just have little odds and ends planned, but those odds and ends just come together in such a way that by Sunday night you’re exhausted but utterly satisfied.

That’s the kind of weekend I had. And I would like to share it with you dear reader. In two parts.

Part 1: Pictures

Part 2: Haiku

The farmer’s market
Is a land of yumminess
Avoid the stickers

Tomatoes, cherries
Honey, peppers, fresh baked bread
Could life get better?

Patio seating
Is the only way to go
Except for green bugs

Those who cannot run
Sit at the finish and cheer
My friend is faster

Proving dorkiness
With light-up Barbie pom poms
But that’s how I roll

A perfect weekend
Is my friend tired of me?
Nah, I’m too much fun