The magic bus is in the shop and our wonderful mechanic gave us a loaner. It’s a big ‘ol Buick that smells of cigars. I guess it is my karma that I usually end up with grandpa cars. This one took me right back to my childhood. My grandfather always had great big boat-like cars. We would go for rides with my grandparents of a Sunday afternoon, our legs sticking to the plastic seat covers, and always stopped to have the best picnics—mountains of breaded veal cutlets, Vernor’s, Paul’s Pies. You have never really had pasta until you have had it cooked over a charcoal fire in the park. I love food that is cooked out-of-doors. My family was big on picnics when I was growing up. I remember roasting corn and potatoes over a fire in Chestnut Ridge Park, the tang of Fall in the air. Sadly, we don’t do a lot of outdoor picnics anymore. We will have to do something about that.

Overheard in the elevator:

Woman 1: Well, the man’s 35 and he still plays on a rugby. You know, like on a team. I mean, he still goes to family functions and he’s home for dinner every night but c’mon. It’s enough to keep his wife grumbling.

Woman 2: They’ve been married for seven years and they have two kids so, you know…

Woman 1: And then last week he was licking whipped cream off of a stripper. That was a little over the line.

Woman 2: Well, if it was my husband, I’d rather have him licking whipped cream off of some stripper than playing rugby.

You can’t make this stuff up.