Despite carrying my camera around in my purse all weekend, I never captured a photo of my visitors—Dad and my brother Paul in town for Thanksgiving. But despite the lack of evidence, they were here. We ate lovely meals and went to a play. We talked about all sorts of things. Paul laid this factoid on me: a large amount of the veal served in New York City is actually the tender interior portion of a fresh ham. Is your mind blown?! I attempted to wow them with my knowledge of local commercial real estate trends. We lamented the rising price of farm land in S.D.
But human nature was rather in evidence as I misjudged the time we needed to eat before the Friday-night play. We had to rush our entree and speed to the theater, missing the first few minutes of the performance. Then, late in the play, I was overtaken by a coughing fit that seemed to last a half an hour, though it was only a few minutes. Sigh.
Because I'm me, these mishaps loom over the weekend in my head. I wish I could just relax and stop being appalled by the fact that I can't actually control everything.
I'll see them again at Christmas, which will be lovely. I'm going to ask Santa if he can't do something about my crippling neuroses. That would be awesome.