(Oh, yes it is.)

~~~~~

It's Sunday night and I'm home (sans roomies, of course) passively celebrating my single status. It's a 'single gal, livin in the city, doing what she wants when she wants and loving every minute of it because single is not the same as alone; I have friends and family and lots of loved ones who just don't happen to be sitting on my couch at this very instant' status, not a 'spinster at home with the cats and a cold piece of pizza eaten over the sink as the fridge door hangs open because who needs to dirty a plate and I might want a drink but I'm too lazy to decide until I'm done eating the pizza, and was that some applesauce I saw in the back' status. I'm smug. I'm secure. I'm a domestic goddess, making dinner and settling in for some quality Sunday night television. Heck, The Charlie Brown Christmas Special is on! Yay, Charles Schultz! Long may your memory reign. And a new Alias! I looooooooove Michael Vartan. He's soooooo dreamy...

::ahem::

But as I'm standing in the kitchen, stirring my almost-finished Pasta Bake, I come to the chilling realization that I'm singing its praises.

Out loud.

Stanza and verse. (no, I will not repeat them. There was 'woo'ing. Numerous.)

What's more, I'm doing the Pasta Bake Dance. ::hanging head in shame::

Oh yeah. All I need are some cats. It doesn't bode well for my hip status, people.

But I highly recommend the Pasta Bake. It tastes better than the effort belies. Serve with salad, and you can impress anybody. I'm just sayin'.

And YES, I ate some cold last night, straight from the dish. Happy now?

~~~~~

Monday night, I attended a 'Volunteer and Student Recognition' night at the literacy program I tutor/volunteer with. For those of you who know the story, there's the irony of them recognizing me for 'outstanding work and effort' in the past year. Remember this year? 4 students quit on me? Yeah, I'm a stellar teacher, obviously. Regardless, I was honored to be acknowleged.

However, there's something humbling about watching the GED graduates process through the seated guests, up to the dias, and enthusiastically hug the staff who have encouraged them to attain this dream. These men and women worked so hard, it would be impossible not to be proud of what they have achieved--basic educational equality. Of course, the most inspiring were the mother and daughter who encouraged, coerced, and cajoled each other to finish the program--and crossed together, victorious. It was truly a kind of victory lap I've never taken, but the entire audience took it together. I've honestly never been prouder to be part of a organization than I was last night. Corny? Yes. But it makes another year of helping out worth it.

~~~~~

The next time I whine about how much I miss the summer here in the city, and how much I loooooooove the city, just kick my shin and remind me about July 4th.

Every year around the July 4th holiday, a massive heat wave blankets the area with intense heat, oppresive heat, the kind of heat that might make the corn grow but my spirits wilt. Since the Lake is usually kind enough to send a breeze across the near-shore, it's almost tolerable...but head about 10 blocks in from the beach and it's murder. It's hot, oppressive, hot, dead, hot, dry, hot, and life-sucking. Did I mention the heat? You wait anxiously, with mounting dread, for just the slightest breeze to make it bearable, to ease the hottest parts of your body (which generally encompass all 22 square feet of my skin), and nothing happens. I try to escape the city to my country estate, where the breezes rustle thru the growing corn and the porch swing has a pitcher of iced tea next to it. But that's only a weekend, so it's back to hell for the work week. I *always* forget this about the summer. It's like an event so horrible to relive that you simply forget as soon as it's passed.

And I forgot until 5:30p today, at which point I chose the sauna over the steam room at my hoity-toit gym. Your choice: either July or August...and I picked the one where I could at least see my own toes. The first five minutes are always heavenly, and then: I realized that I was warm, my earrings were rapidly becoming a science lesson in heat conductivity in action, and my aureoled hair was hot. My bottled water was rapidly becoming less refreshing, and that color on my legs was my long-lost burn lines from August sailing. However, after I realized that I was in July weather, I could relax...but I didn't last too long. Worried about passing out and becoming a shrunken wizened body (brought on by vague memories of reading some story about a mad woman who locks her bitter rival/enemy in the sauna behind the house and promptly forgets about her, due to the psychotic episode she decides to have), I slithered out and gulped great gasps of cool clorinated air. Of course, I also silently apologized to my sorry book that I had taken in there with me. The *real* reason women read crap books all summer is not because they are looking for 'light' reading, but because heat and sun and sunblock and sweat are hell on a poor paperback. My book glared sullenly back at me, and it's a good thing it was free or we'd both be more pissed. As it was, I had to leave it on that little stool-thing outside the shower and it, too, got a shower. Charlotte Grey is now most definately grey.