In Boston, Jessica and Melanie invited me to drinks at Delux. I’d never met or corresponded with either of them, but I was a little lonely in a new city, and I needed a drink. We had my first conversation in weeks that didn’t touch on the VP nominee, CNN, or swing states. Mostly we talked about books and boys and how the two had crossed our paths at various points.

For me, meeting writers has sometimes been a let down. They often seem less witty, less kind, or more neurotic than I imagined. This may be why I’ve never offered to meet readers when I’m traveling, I’m afraid of seeing the disappointment in their dear reader faces. It’s quite possible, after all, that one of them could turn to me and say, “You’re kind of boring, and much less attractive than I expected.”

Neither Melanie nor Jessica said that, which was really rather sweet of them, and made me much more open to meeting readers who don’t seem to be knife-wielding sorts. Thanks for the drink, ladies.

For years, I’ve yearned to be a go-go dancer. I thought it would be like stepping into a ’60s musical: mod mini-dress, tall white boots, an arsenal of kittenish glances. I imagined Ann-Margaret and Elvis palpitating in the foreground, me and five other girls rocking the bars of our cages in the back. We would shake it, pause for the briefest dramatic moment, and then shake it once more.

MTV squelched that dream.

The Rock the Vote party was empty at the street-level door, so we headed up a narrow flight of stairs, following the sound of a live band. Behind the band was a large sign with hot pink and orange lettering that read, “FRICKIN’ A!” In front of the band? Real, live go-go dancers.

My eyes opened wide, my eyebrows drew together. Where were the boots? Where was the fringe and the big hair? Why were they licking their lips like that?

The dancers were grinding in hot-pink bras and panties. They weren’t particularly good dancers, just… explicit. Forget the kittenish glances friends, these faces said much more than “come hither.” The crowd was slack-jawed, utterly still, and entirely male. They weren’t watching the band.

It was then I realized what go-go dancers have become: strippers who don’t take their clothes off. And that, my friends, makes for some lame-ass strippers.

The convention broke me. It cracked me open and spilled me all over the Fleet Center floor. Interestingly enough, I seem to be filled with confetti and small enamel commemorative pins.

Anyway, now that I’m back in San Francisco and have slept for three days straight, I’m no longer stupid with exhaustion. I’ll be posting some convention stuff over the next few days. Thanks for your patience while I was away.

In the office, we have a whiteboard. The whiteboard has little squares, and the squares represent the volunteers we need. Each day we check off about 25 of the squares, but it’s a painful and arduous process, one that involves about fifteen phone calls for every one person who meets a specific set of criteria. Today we checked our email account for fresh volunteers. Our staff tends to talk aloud as they read these messages. A few days ago, I realized that one of my interns needs some time off:

“Hey, this guy used an exclamation point. That’s what I’m talkin’ about. He is ready to roll.”

I go downstairs to take my security photo. The result is not flattering. The security guy looks it over.

SG: You know, I’m sure you hear this all the time. You look just like that one lady.

Me: … No. Which lady?

SG: The first lady?

Me: Laura Bush?

SG: Nooo! From a long time ago.

Me: (Eleanor Roosevelt? Lady Bird Johnson? Dolley Madison?) Uhh…

SG: You know the one. The president was, like, young? And they had kids? And he got shot?

Me: You mean JFK.

SG: That’s it! You look like the JFK first lady!

Me: Jackie Kennedy.

SG: Yeah! Yeah.

Me: Well, that’s a flattering thing to say to a Democrat.

SG: Yeah. You get that a lot?

Me: Nope.

SG: Well, you look just like that lady.

Every Sunday this month, everything at the Goodwill thrift store is 50 percent off. I wait about fifteen minutes for a dressing room. Before I get in, the clerk clears everything out. Everything, that is, except for a single boot. That boot is in the corner, soaking in a puddle of urine. I notice it a few minutes into trying on clothes, and come out of the dressing room horrified. A woman with a baby stroller tries to push in after me.

“I’d wait for the next one,” I say. “There’s pee in the corner.”

She considers this, peeks in, waits until she thinks I’m far enough away to have forgotten about her, then enters anyway. With her baby. I approach the sales clerk.

“Someone peed in the dressing room,” I say. “You should call someone to come and clean it up.”

“Huh,” he says. “Yeah.”

Then he goes back to hanging clothes.

I go home and shower twice.

My computer done broke. Broke as in, “I sure hope you backed up your hard drive. Your computer’s done broke.” I hadn’t. I hadn’t even though I’m working on a book. For the record, not backing up when you’re working on a book is the stupidest kind of not-backing-up you can do. Fortunately, Lane Becker–who is wise beyond all measure–figured out how to get the information from my hard drive before I had to give the laptop back to Apple. Therefore, my lovelies, please back up, as you may not have a Lane Becker in your life.

I went to the candy store, because Lane is a man who deserves some chocolate. The woman behind me in line was excited because it’s Friday. Tonight is the night when her husband brings home a bottle of champagne, she brings home a box of chocolate, and they spend some time on the porch.

Friends, may your Friday be so sweet, and your computer perpetually hummming.

When my niece and nephew come for a visit, I’m surprised by their utter lack of concern about dirt and germs. Trevor likes to pick things up out of the gutter and roll them around in his hands. Then he rubs his face. Emma touches absolutely everything. She runs her hands along anything at hand level. At the beach, I looked over to find her digging her fingertips into the top of the driftwood fence as she ran along next to it. I was alarmed.

“Yikes! Em, you’re going to get slivers!”

She glanced over at me and shrugged. “I like the way it sharpens my nails,” she said, holding out her hands for me to see.

I shuddered, and kept my mouth shut. Fearlessness is fleeting.