I was going to sign on today, a dreaded Monday, after an incredibly eventful and social weekend and talk about how rural North Carolina was casting a blight upon my very soul. About how all I want to do is go on business lunches and interview interesting people who think I, too, am interesting, and about how I seem to be suffering from a period of unnecessary but pressing grief regarding the whole "I'm 27 what should I be?" question. About how my one spot of joy today (since I didn't get a delicious cup of coffee in an effort to quell the anxiety I seem to have inherited from my father THANKS DAD!) was picking up the keys to our new place. Our soon-to-be home with the turquoise door and the porch with two white rocking chairs that gives me the opportunity to pack and thus perform massive spring cleaning! Throwing things away! A clean slate! I was going to write about all that but instead I thought I'd share how yesterday when we all went to get breakfast after the incredibly social Saturday with all the guests - how we were standing outside Elmo's, starving, and J got a copy of the Independent newspaper and there was a big cover story about poverty in North Carolina. And I said "Oh man. There's been a lot of press about poverty in North Carolina yesterday. Have you been listening to NPR?" And J, whose eyes didn't even shift in my direction turned to the back page with all the crazy advertising, pointed to one in particular and said to Tom, "Sex toy party."