Hoop dreams, realized

It was a very good weekend. I spent Friday night alone. Erik was in Stockholm hanging out with Comet Gain and I was in the mood to do nothing. Since the girls that I most love to do nothing with live a few thousand miles away, I did my nothing solo. Although I would always rather Erik be in the room than not, I still get a silly thrill at the prospect of a weekend night alone. I rented movies that he would have little interest in, I made myself a cozy dinner of grilled cheese and Campbell's tomato soup, and I plopped onto the couch with a bowl of Bavarian pretzels and dip.

On Saturday I woke up early to run errands before rushing to watch Erik, in baggy gear that made him look fourteen, slip all over the ice in a game of very amateur hockey. After a short rest and a dinner on the fly, Erik and I got ready for our night out. And Saturday, with it's bands and dancing and socializing, became the more wonderful opposite to wonderful Friday.

But I'm giving you this litany only so that I can tell you one thing. Saturday night would have been memorable for its music and for reuniting Erik and I with friends from London, some of whom we hadn't seen in four years. Saturday wasn't just memorable, though, it was a milestone. For me it will forever be The Night I First Wore Hoops.

(Nothing says "milestone" and "shameless attempt to minimize blotchiness" like hitting a grayscale button.)

Yes friends, the baby earrings came out last week and, aside from one near fainting spell brought on by excessive digging to find the other end of my left-lobe hole, I am really enjoying my jazzed up ears. If my twelve-year-old self could see me now! (She'd probably demand I wear those heinous beaded things I treasured.)