Unfortunately a snafu arose, and we are not heading to the homeland this weekend. We're both disappointed, but oh well. We will eat the plum cobbler here, and we will find something else to do--maybe an island visit, maybe go to the movies, something.

Yesterday I started reading Margaret Drabble's The Seven Sisters, received two big rejections, listened to the Red Sox thump the Yankees, and made some excellent pork chops (marinated for several hours in lime juice and salt; then pan-braised and served with cold black pepper rice, fresh guacamole, and a big summer salad). I went to a yoga class and did many planks. I started copyediting a historian's ex-dissertation, and I sent a few poems to a journal. I folded towels. I talked on the phone with my son and played cribbage with Tom. I drank one beer and innumerable glasses of ice tea. I picked three cucumbers and slept through a Star Trek episode.

[The Sassy Woodchuck seems to have gone on vacation to someone else's garden; only insects have been eating my plants lately.]

I let the cat out and in and out and in and out and in. I hummed Otis Redding's "Try a Little Tenderness," which has been stuck in my head for a week. I worked on a crossword puzzle and flipped through a poetry journal and finished reading Emma for the millionth time. I worried about being fat, and then forgot to worry about being fat. I bought gas for the car, and I whacked some weeds, and I got hot and sweaty. I changed my clothes. I texted my sister. I listened to the lonely whistle of a freight train.

I was the object of affection. I was the person who cleans up cat puke. I filled out college financial aid forms, and I threw away dead flowers. I washed the coffee pot and I opened the windows and I reluctantly put on a bra. I chanted the last stanza of a poem draft and arrived at no final decisions about cadence. I made an appointment to get my car inspected. I ate tortilla chips and said farewell to my neighbor, who has a cat named Atlas and is moving to Scarborough.

I felt old. I threw away a wad of junk mail. I scrubbed the stove and coughed and blew my nose. I felt childish.

I looked forward to going away for the weekend and fretted about leaving the cat. I invented a fake club (Ridiculously-Loud-Vehicle Club for Bros Who Don't Need Pickups Because They Work in Offices and Go to School Part Time to Get Their Degree in Communications but They Have Them Anyway Because Noise Is So Fun!). I thought about Dante.

I went to bed in a hot room. I fell asleep in front of the fan. I dreamed about mysterious elderly couples gathering together in a VFW parking lot among Buicks and potholes. I woke up. I was still me.