It's bill nite, but let's be honest. Paying bills is no less arduous when done on a nite than on a night. Aiight?

That settled, we can move on.

I have an odd fondness for bill nite. At what other time in an ordinary week can you say to yourself, "Of course I should have that fourth brownie... I deserve it. I've earned it. I need the comfort of a simple carbohydrate to coax me through such a drab exercise in unpleasantness."

And I like to push back my chair as the last check is slipped into the last envelope, spread my arms graciously, and announce to those around me, "It's all right, Family. You can relax. I've paid the mortgage. The house is ours for another month!"

"Is bread fattening?" asked Oldest daughter in the bathtub, wincing as Youngest splashed and aimed a squirt from a rubber fish in her direction.

Please don't overreact, my inner Teenager pleaded with my inner Mom who is prone to overreacting.

I adopted a calculatedly level tone. "I guess anything is, if you eat too much of it."

As if I didn't know the exact calorie, fat, carbohydrate, fiber, and protein count of three distinct brands of white bread.

But I knew this wasn't coming from me. Fattening is not a word I use. Fattening is a word used by middle-aged soccer moms who believe that certain foods add inches to their thighs while low-fat s'mores can be eaten by the fistful. "Did someone tell you that?" I asked.

"Courtney said it was," said Oldest, and she busied herself with arranging a bubble citadel for our resident mermaid.

I quickly thought back to third grade. Yes, as scrawny eight-year-olds we'd called ourselves fat. We'd talked about how we needed to go on diets. But not really. We were imitating our mothers and older sisters, the same way we talked about lipstick and boyfriends. I didn't really think I was fat any more than I really wanted a boy to come within twelve feet of me.

The only third-grader I knew who could really claim to be on a diet was my chubby friend Susie whose mom regularly packed her celery sticks for lunch and then fed her brownies and Twinkies as after-school snacks. I'm quite certain Susie is in therapy now.

Of course, I felt a mom-ish responsibility to beat the issue to death with a heavy club. "You know, there's no such thing as good foods or bad foods! If you eat a balanced diet every day and exercise, you'll always stay fit! And being thin is not the same thing as being healthy! And people like you for what you do, not how you look!"

Oldest pointed to the bottles above her head and said, "Can you reach me some more shampoo for my mermaid's hair?"

"Anorexia kills brain cells!"

"What?"

"For more information, go to www.nationaleatingdisorders.org!"

Somewhere in the distance, my inner Teenager could be heard slamming the door to her room.

So let me tell you.

If you think there couldn't possibly be anything better than spending the late hours of your Saturday night copywriting your way through the guts of an online brochure that's five days overdue to the designer...

Well.

I can think of at least one thing.

And those tweezers are calling my name.

I seem to have come down with something that appears to be flu-like in nature. I have barely gotten out of bed since yesterday. So when Youngest came home from Grandma's, Daddy told her to leave Mommy alone. Mommy was sleeping. Youngest promply crawled under the covers with me.

"So what da matter, Mom?"

I told her that I was sick. Her eyes lit up. "I'm gonn' take CARE of you!" she exclaimed, and ran to get her Doctor's Kit.

"Oh god no," I mumbled.

Minutes later, Youngest was lovingly shoving hard plastic things in my ears, prying open my eyes and pretending to shine lights in them, poking me with toy syringes, and instructing me to swallow imaginary medicine the she held out to me cupped in her little hand.

I feel much better. I swear. I've had all the medical intervention I can handle.

The new word in Youngest's vocabulary is "actually."

This is almost as cute as her mastery of the word "probably" a few months ago, pronounced something like pwaa-bwaa-bwee, but used correctly in a sentence nonetheless. (Would she like to go with Mom to the store? "No, I probably would just like to stay here with Daddy.")

Her use of "actually" seems to betray just how much more is going on in her head than we have access to. For example, she'll pull her charm on Daddy and ask for a dessert during dinner.

"You need to eat your dinner first," says Dad.

Youngest says, "Actually, I ate my dinner already."

Dad points to 90% of her dinner left on the plate. "You have lots of dinner left here."

Youngest pouts, then scoots down from the table and runs off to watch TV while we decide whether it's worth it to chase her down.

Ten minutes later, as Oldest is clearing dishes, Youngest returns to find her plate missing from the table. "MY DINNER! IT GONE!" she cries in anguished outrage.

Oldest looks at me and rolls her eyes. I say to Youngest, "You said you were finished."

Youngest sticks out her lower lip. "ACTUALLY," she informs me, "I still eating it!"

"You're done."

Her pout instantly turns into a wide, beseeching smile, complete with batted eyelashes. "Can I have some candy?"

I offer her fruit instead, which she grudgingly accepts and then leaves with it. I can hear her talking to Dad in the den.

"Oh, you've got an apple!" Dad observes.

"Actually Dad, I would like some candy..."

During the drives in to work lately, I've all but convinced myself that I'm a finalist on American Idol.

In the middle of traffic, I throw back my hair, grip the steering wheel meaningfully, and loudly belt my way through lyrics to songs I barely know…hoping the judges will see that what I lack in talent I make up for in stage presence and glamour.

"You are a star!" applauds my inner Paula as I wind down on a Cher-like finish.

Interestingly, that's one of the areas in which I was dinged on the aforementioned performance evaluation: Appraises others' work openly and honestly.

Writing is like singing, I guess. Those who can't do it very well are often the ones who persist in doing it, well, loudly. And since I've never been very keen on offering my own open and honest opinions, I find it helpful to fall back on a panel of judges.

The screechiest writing is most likely to bring out my Paula. At least to the person's face. "Well done! This is really… nice. I like it. That's all I can really say, it's just very good, very well done."

Sometimes I'll offer up a Randy. "I don't know, dawg. I just wasn't feeling it this time. It just wasn't for me, you know?"

Afterwards, Simon shakes his head. "Abysmal," he says. "Utterly terrible. I would honestly advise you never to approach a writing instrument again for the rest of your natural life. You simply cannot write."

But then there are those moments when I'm asked to read something that really is good, and that's when the judges leap to their feet and shout, "Outstanding!"

If only those moments were distinguishable from the Paulas. Perhaps I need name tags.

I love my workplace, I really do. My co-workers are like the sisters I never had, each one kind and supportive 90-percent of the time, and yet willing to turn on you like a snake and cut your throat if it means getting a bigger piece of pie for dessert.

We all know what a girl will do for pie.

Especially key lime.

But I digress.

I'm beginning to feel like the family vibe has gone a bit too far. As we rolled into 2004 and came upon evaluation time, Mom – er, my boss – called us all together into the big living room-like meeting area to talk about our feelings.

"You are all such wonderful people," said Mrs. S, "and you all do fabulous work. Which is why I didn't feel like it was fair to give any one person a bigger raise this year than anyone else."

Not quite sure whether to join hands and smile or start stabbing backs, the sisters exchanged confused looks.

"You see," Mom continued, "we have a pool of money set aside for raises. If I were to give one person more, it would take money away from someone else. And that's just not fair, is it."

Evil thoughts entered my mind. I thought of the people who regularly do less work than me. I thought of the people who take two-hour lunches. And all the times I've saved their butts by taking work from them. I could feel my blood pressure starting to rise.

"So, please, if anyone doesn't feel good about this, let's talk about it."

And of course, in true sisterly fashion, we did. Behind backs.

[IMPORTANT NOTE: I promise, I'm not a political blogger. I am not going to start blathering on about political things.]

[FURTHER CLARIFICATION: I support the right of any one adult, gay or otherwise, to legally marry any one other adult, gay or otherwise. I do not support the legal discrimination against or subjugation of any specified group of people.]

Our president is "troubled" by same-sex marriages. Troubled.

He is not troubled by national debt, corporate corruption, children living in poverty, destruction of wildlife, shattered foreign relations, or even the launching of a war based on pretense. None of these things trouble our president.

But two people falling in love and making a binding, legal commitment to support one another. Now, that's troubling.

No, I mean it. I can see why this is a national crisis worthy of constitutional intervention. These two committed people, once granted the right to publicly care for one another, might think it is also within their right to care for children (or pets, for that matter). Two caring parents dedicated to providing a stable family life? Think of those poor kids!

I am troubled that when the leader of our country states that "people need to be involved in this decision," and that "marriage ought to be defined by the people not by the courts," he doesn't mean those people.

I'm troubled that he thinks it's right to deny a person full participation in our society if that person falls outside his rich, white, heterosexual definition of the norm.

Anyway, of course gays can get married. They can get married right now if they want to. A gay person can march into any courthouse in the United States right this very minute and marry someone, as long as their genitals don't match.

In fact, any man can marry any woman. Even if they're perfect strangers. On a dare. For five minutes. After several too many beers.

Now that's a sacred definition of marriage worth defending.

Sunday was Nuffin Day at our house.

Some might pronounce the word for the little mounds of baked batter "muffins," but not Youngest. As far as she's concerned, we made nuffins.

It started with two blackened bananas hanging from a wire banana tree on my kitchen counter. They'd been hanging there all week. It was a standoff between us and the bananas. We weren't going to eat them but damn it, we'd paid good money for them and darned if we were going to throw them out.

"I'm not throwing those bananas out," I said firmly to Husband, keeping one eye on the offending fruit as I unloaded the dishwasher.

Husband did not look up from the Sunday paper. "Okay. I'm not going to eat them."

"I eat dem?" asked Youngest, who still licks the bottom of her shoes when we're not looking.

"No honey," I told her. "They're all black and icky."

Youngest thought for a moment. "Daddy eat dem?"

What would my mother do in this situation? Why, she would trick us into eating the black bananas by disguising them as edible food.

"We're going to make muffins!" I announced.

For the next few minutes while I gathered the ingredients, Youngest danced around the kitchen shouting, "Nuffins! Nuffins! I makin nuffins! I make dem! I eat dem!"

At a pause in her cavorting, Daddy sidled over and asked her, "Hey, what are we making?"

"Nuffin," she answered with conviction.

"What will they taste like?"

"Nuffin."

"What are they good for?"

"Nuffin."

"What do you love more than Daddy?"

"Nuffin."

"How much will your education cost us?"

"Nuffin."

"What are you going to amount to?"

"Nuffin."

Husband and I were amused. "What's more fun than teasing a baby?" he asked me.

"Nuffin," I said. "Except swatting you with a kitchen towel," which I reached for and caused him to flee.

They're painting the office across the hall from me.

With paint fumes wafting lazily about my head, I decided that it was time to eat the Really Fricking Huge Chocolate Brownie that I'd brought back from lunch at the local bagel place.

When the register girl asked me if I would like to add a brownie to my order for just one dollar, I thought, "I don't believe I'm in the mood for a brownie." And what came out of my mouth, instead, was: "Why, yes I would!"

Register girl reached behind the counter and withdrew the single largest brownie I've ever seen outside a 9x9 baking pan, wrapped in cellophane. With some difficulty, I stowed it in my purse for later consumption. My group ate lunch and decided to make a side trip to the craft store, and so I, feeling a bit conspicuous, went along with Giganto-Brownie in tow.

"Do you think I'm allowed to come in here?" I asked a friend, pointing to the "No Food or Drink Allowed" sign on the door. She told me not to be stupid, that it was just a brownie. Excuse me, but Giganto-Brownie was not just a brownie. It practically owned real estate. It probably had a family and several pets at home. I was not carrying it in my purse so much as it was allowing itself to be carried.

I started to feel as though people in the craft store were talking about me.

I felt compelled to walk up to random people and explain the situation. "It's not like I really even wanted the brownie in the first place," I said to a blue-haired woman as she was examining spools of thread.

In one of the aisles, a mother with small children was looking at yarn. "Hey, I smell chocolate!" said one of the children. "Well I'm not going to eat the whole thing at once!" I snapped at him.

By the time I got the brownie back to the office, I was a nervous wreck. "You're too skinny," the brownie whispered to me. "You should eat more."

"That's the sweetest thing anyone's ever said to me," I replied, before realizing that I was talking into my purse and people were staring.

And then they began to paint the office across the hall from me.

So here I am.

That is, at home. As in: I’m not at work today.

It’s a snow day, sort of. They predicted that gobs of all sorts of scary, icy snowishness would be dumped on us as we slept last night, and that upon waking we would peer out of our frost-laced windows and recoil in horror at the sight of so much frozen precipitation and vehicular carnage on the roadways.

It turned out not to be the case, but it was threat enough to cause Oldest’s school to close.

So here we are midway through the day, with Oldest contentedly curled up in front of a DVD that Husband had rented for her, and Youngest zooming about the house with a clay fish raised above her head that is apparently able to defy the earth’s gravity and occasionally break into fancy dance moves to the tune of “Jingle Bells.”

Okay, technically I have work with me that I brought home specifically so that I could stay home on the impending snow day without feeling guilty. Am I going to do it?

No.

I’m going to drag out watercolors and paper, and paint rainbows with my kids. I’m going to bake cookies. I’m going to sit with my feet up on the coffee table, a book in one hand and the other arm around Oldest on the couch, while Youngest pounds Play-Doh into the rug.

I’m a grown woman and I still feel like snow days are freebies. Neener.

We're taking Oldest to see Return of the King on Saturday, the grand culmination of several weekends spent on the couch together working our way through the extended edition DVDs of the first two movies. Oldest, you see, is a Type-II viewer.

I should explain.

There are three types of Lord of the Rings viewers.

Type-I: Grew up loving the world of Middle Earth or fell in love with it some time before the movies came out. Spent a great deal of time leading up to their debut fretting and checking up on Peter Jackson's credentials as a director and saying things like, "These films had better not suck." Felt great relief when Fellowship did, in fact, not suck. Rushed home after each film to re-read the books with renewed enthusiasm.

Type-II: Had not read the books prior to seeing the first film. Was immediately drawn in by Peter Jackson's visual re-telling of the story and captivated by the characters and epic, mythological landscape. Either rushed right out to read the books, or eagerly anticipated the next film.

Type-III: Think that Orlando Bloom is so hot. So very, very, very sexy hot hot HOT! Oh my god, look at his sexy, twisted Elf ears. Bet Elves are magnificent lovers. P.S. Arwen is too fat to be an Elf, and think Frodo and Sam are gay. But nevertheless!

Husband and I, of course, grew up with the books. On opening day of each film, we stood in line outside the theater in the miserable December cold, holding hands and nearly jumping with excitement like the dorks we know we are.

In line for the final film, at the earliest showing in the city on opening day (excluding the midnight shows – I mean, we have kids and all), I looked around and wondered how many of us were that kid in school. The kid who wrote secret messages in runes and named pet fish Legolas and Gimli. And here we all were, taking our bent, worn copies of The Hobbit out of hiding and looking around at other kids who, just like us, would have loved to take it apart and point to precursors, themes, symbolism, and the sheer, wandering majesty of the world of Middle Earth.

In a way, it's kind of sad that now it's a phenomenon, and that there may come a generation of kids who think that the books are based on the movies. But we'll set them straight. Oldest is reading my beat-up copy of The Hobbit. Each night she shows me what chapter she's on with an excitement in her eyes that I recognize, and I peer over her shoulder and get swept up in the adventure all over again.

Thursday is Quote Day! Here are a few:

"A friendship can weather most things and thrive in thin soil; but it needs a little mulch of letters and phone calls and small, silly presents every so often -- just to save it from drying out completely." -- Pam Brown

"I like to listen. I have learned a great deal from listening carefully. Most people never listen." -- Ernest Hemingway

"No one can make you feel inferior without your consent." -- Eleanor Roosevelt

"True friends stab you in the front." -- Oscar Wilde

"For of all sad words of tongue or pen, The saddest are these: 'It might have been!'" -- John Greenleaf Whittier

Many people believe they are married to the "best" person of the opposite (or same, depending) sex. The truth is, I have secured the best man. I've known this for some time, but now and then I have to publicly proclaim it.

Last night, against Husband's better judgment, I talked him into watching a show we'd Tivo-ed (against his better judgment) on Discovery Health about The Woman with the 200-Pound Tumor.

The tumor weighed more than I do, even on fat days.

You half expected it to morph into human form and separate itself from the woman like an alien-esque form of asexual budding reproduction.

I have a grotesque fascination with things that go that wrong with the human body. Husband was outright horrified. He cringed and winced and watched sideways while I sat glued to each lingering camera shot.

Toward the end, we both promised each other never to get sick or sprout monstrous tumors. And then I felt a migraine coming on.

I've had migraines in the past. I've had them with increasing frequency in the past few months. Usually I see sparkly lights, take some pills, go to sleep for a few hours and wake up able to function. But this, this was the migraine to knock all previous migraines on their collective rear. We went to bed around 10:30 and by midnight I was sitting on the bathroom floor convinced that my brain was hemorrhaging.

And then I was a character in Our Town and the dragon from Sleeping Beauty wanted to marry my sister.

I kept Husband up for many hours, alternately wretching, sobbing, and hallucinating. If he would have rather been sleeping, he never showed it. He brought me water and tissues and made me feel calm. I ultimately convinced the dragon that I didn't have a sister, and he turned into a shower of brilliant fireworks that could be seen throughout all of Grover's Corners.

He's such a nice man. Husband, that is... not the dragon.

The other night, I was pulled from a sound sleep, as I sometimes am, by this:

"Mom…"

Our bedrooms are close enough together that the kids know I'll hear them if they call in the middle of the night. And they don't even really need to call. I seem to be tuned in to their frequency. If they toss, cough, whimper, or simply open their eyes in the darkness and say, "Mom…" I wake up.

I try not to overreact, though. I usually give it two or three Moms before I leap out of bed. One to wake up with, another to judge which child is requesting Mom and with what level of intensity.

So with the first "Mom…" I opened my eyes and waited, listening intently.

"Mom…"

The second was as indistinct as the first. A mellow, unpanicked request. Faint, yet insistent. No hint of whimpering or discomfort. No clue to the child's identity.

"Mom…"

This was weird. It didn't seem to be either rising in tone or settling back into sleep. And I honestly couldn't tell whether it had come from an eight-year-old or a two-year-old.

"Mom…"

Four Moms in a few minutes meant that comforting of some kind was needed, even if the request was still entirely calm. I rolled out of bed and walked barefoot into the hall, still listening, still trying to determine whether it was sleep-talking or a false alarm.

"Mom…"

Which kid is that? I peeked in on Oldest, her arm flung up over her face, hair plastered to her cheek in a dead sleep. I rubbed her back beneath the comforter and kissed the top of her head. No response. Must be Youngest.

"Mom…"

Next door in Youngest's room, I stepped carefully over the carpet, avoiding the creaky floorboards, and leaned over the rail of her crib, putting my hand on her back. She was sound asleep on her stomach, bottom pointing skyward, pudgy cheek planted firmly against the sheet. Totally unawake.

"Mom…"

I felt a chill. I thought immediately of wind over crevices, air traveling through pipes, beams creaking, stray cats trapped in sewers, and other rational explanations. And of course, ghosts. I went back to our room, intending to wake Husband and insist that he search the house and find the lost ghost-child who was calling for its mother so that they could be reunited in the afterlife.

"Mom…"

I looked down at the foot of my bed.

"You little shit," I told the cat. She opened an eye and looked up at me.

"Mom," she breathed through her nostril, the air whistling against the bedspread.

It’s an exciting time of the year here at the Weasel homestead. Having successfully weathered the financial upheaval of yet another holiday season, it’s time to [drumroll] Zero Out the Budget for the new year.

I will mentally gather all of our money together into one big virtual pile, from the lowliest stash of coins on our dresser to the dollar bills I had stashed in my desk drawer at work, all the way up to our savings and checking accounts. I will remove all earmarkings and intentions from all of our money. I will absolve it from any well-intentioned but ill-fated savings attempts. I will stop making the $50 that’s been languishing in the Disney World fund feel guilty about the -$2879 deficit in the Automotive Repair fund.

None of that matters anymore. This is a new year. All funds return to zero. For a brief few hours, all money belongs to all funds. We can, for a moment or so, entertain the idea of pouring all available money into the Furniture fund and going on a Queer-Eye-esque makeover spree for our house. We can imagine what it might be like to spend thousands of dollars each month on clothing and concerts instead of paying the mortgage or feeding the children.

Then when we finally settle in and start plugging realistic figures into the budget for the coming year, it should be depressing. But it isn’t. We’ve taken back the choice. We choose to spend $400 per month on groceries. We decide how much to put toward college funds, vacations, and new shoes. We’re reminded that things that don’t seem like choices, such as paying credit card bills, are choices when we decide to pay $5 more on each bill each month to pay them off just a tiny bit faster.

Now I can finally stop feeling guilty for “stealing” $4.55 per week from the grocery budget for a quick sushi hit. This year, there will be a Sushi fund. Maybe I will spend $80 per month on rainbow rolls instead of gas for my car…

This morning I celebrated my return to the office with the creamy, nutty wonderfulness that is Ferrero Rocher.

It does not mean "feral roach," as my husband tried to convince me. That was an attempt on his part to get me to stop eating the little goodies and leave some for him. Do not be fooled by such lies.

So I left home with an apple, an orange, a Luna bar, a mug of coffee, and three beautiful, gold-wrapped Ferrero Rocher from the gift box given to us by a close friend. These would be compensation for each of the healthy foods I planned to eat throughout the day. These would help ease the transition from holiday binging back to healthful, sensible eating. They would make me forget that I am but one of a few stragglers left in my office without any remaining vacation time to take during this three-day work span sandwiched between two four-day weekends.

Nestled snug within my purse, they assured me that they would hold my hand through this unpleasant Monday. At periodic intervals, they would emerge and reward my perseverance with soothing chocolate.

It is 9:17 a.m. and I have eaten them.

And the Luna bar is growing uncomfortable with the way I keep feeling its wrapper to discern whether it contains a chocolate-like coating.

I stand out today because I am wearing brand-new black jeans.

The last time I wore new black jeans to work was in August 2000. They were very, very black. The next time I wore them was a week later, after I'd washed them. They had emerged from the laundry somewhat less black, betraying a few faded streaks and creases. In fact, after a few more washes I began to worry that I resembled the shaft end of a before-and-after colorfastness experiment.

Here is a random list of things to which the blackness of my jeans might be compared:

The depth of night
My eternal soul
The creepiest corner of my laundry room where spiders dwell
Unrelenting evil
The sleep of death (what dreams may come, etc.)

Merry Christmas to All!

I'm worried about BBY KAT, the light brown Honda.

She's one of the cars that I frequently see during my drive to work. I'm usually on the road at about the same time, traveling the same route, and I find myself riding along beside many of the same cars each morning. It's like a playgroup for my Ion. He perks up when he sees cars he recognizes.

There's BBY KAT of course. And the white truck with the Attend the Church of Your Choice sticker. And the silver Ion whom my green Ion thinks of as a sort of cousin. (We let each other over in the sticky construction spots).

There's the orange Cougar. And the bright yellow Beetle. And the car that I only saw once but can't seem to forget because of its www.rememberjanebelle.com sticker.

But I'm just hoping BBY KAT is all right. I caught up with her on an entrance ramp to the highway. The streets were rainy, cold, and slick, and I was just trying to get to work without random cars losing control and sliding into me. As I pulled up behind BBY KAT, one of her rear wheels began wobbling alarmingly as if it were about to fall off.

"What do I do?" I wondered. "Do I honk, flash my lights, roll down my window and shout?" I felt terrible, but I did nothing. I watched her turn onto the highway and speed up to match the traffic, unaware that anything was wrong.

A police car passed me. "Catch her!" I silently prodded him. "Pull her over and warn her about the wheel!" But he didn't. The wheel continued to wobble, and the officer passed her without a glance.

My exit came up, and I took it, spending the entire remainder of my drive with my knuckles clenched on the steering wheel. I imaginined BBY KAT's wheel coming loose, her car careening out of control, flipping several times into oncoming traffic, and ending in a twisted wreck with many innocent people dead. All because I couldn't bring myself to flash my lights at the woman.

I know it sounds silly, but I'm going to be checking the paper for traffic fatalities. The world is just too darn dangerous.

I came into the office today to discover that Facilities had left on my desk a very nice, leather-simulated, gold-edged, checkbook-sized 2004 calendar. How kind!

Checking my email, I discovered that the company had kindly provided everyone with a "pocket diary," reflecting the true international flavor of our international owners.

My very own pocket diary. Well, as a devoted diarist since the age of eight, I feel it would be a shame to waste it on dates and appointments.

Dear Diary, (reads my very first calendar entry)

Today I shall be meeting with marketing to discuss the direct mail efforts for a collection of drug books. The meeting is set for two o'clock in the afternoon, which I feel is a wonderful time of day for a meeting. The sun should be casting beautifully through the barren tree limbs, and we'll all be a pleasant state of mind having just returned from lunch.

I will take you with me everywhere, Dear Diary! I'll use you to record phone numbers of people I meet, as well as the addresses and birthdays of close friends.

But for now, I'll have to stop writing in you. Since it's taken me forty minutes to thoughtfully record today's meeting time, my boss is standing at my office door and looking impatient because there were several files she had asked me to give her before the meeting. (Between you and me, Diary, she needs to lighten up.) Talk to you again soon! Love, ME