Cue the banjoes...
We're off to the "South of the North" to celebrate my sister's 50th birthday. And see the pigs. And the new old farm house. Spending three days living like good country people.

I only wish this didn't involve a lengthy car ride. My daughters are amiable traveling companions but I'm a bad passenger and we all wind up slightly unraveled by the experience. (Though I can't imagine any trip that could be more "exciting" than bringing a post-appendectomy Bridget home from the Halloween party.) And in the realm magical thinking, my sister called on Wednesday night to let me know that my nephew Dave was at the emergency room getting stitches, so we could call that the obligatory disaster concomitant with any visit. (Dave cut his knee on a bread knife. In the mini-van. Thirteen stitches. Can't wait to hear more about that. I mean how can a lively hockey player, who has managed to avoid any stitches in the course of his ice antics, manage to kneel on a bread knife in a car?)

I'm finishing up at work, while Fran bathes the dogs and finishes loading the car. (Cody and Clyde ran away last night. Good weather leads to too much foot traffic and loitering and the next thing we know, the dogs have given us the slip. They returned around 4:00 am - after another night of us further disingratiating ourselves in the neighborhood with the repeated yelling of "Cody- girl" and "Clyde- o" - cover in burrs and mud. I was ready to leave town at that point.) Naturally, I'd love to Twitter this whole charming experience, but I can't seem to get on to my Twitter account.

Time to go. Another adventure with a carload of bad Catholics traversing the big woods.