On Thursday morning I drove to NJ for dinner with my parents and grandmother. It was difficult to know that my grandfather would not be with us, but there is something heart-warming even in grief when it is shared. We had a wonderful, precious time of talking and being together. My mother made blueberry peach cobbler, which goes to show that I am growing up since I did not wrinkle up my nose in distaste at the prospect of cooked fruit. This evidence is necessary, because if you were to go off of the candles, you perhaps might think otherwise...
Friday my mother and I had some girl time: A pedicure for my wretched feet and a manicure for her. Then I got a taylor ham egg and cheese on an everything bagel at my favorite bagel store (which is one of the few things that keep me coming back to NJ), and headed to the Montclair Art Museum to see a Whistler exhibit my mother had discovered. This was appropriate, since Whistler has the honor of sharing my birthday. Other than the tour guide who caused me to want to stick my little plastic "paid" tag through my eyeball (I'll spare you the details) it was a cool thing to do.
Our time was short however, because I needed to get over to Keith and Marisa's so that we could head to Boston for our weekend of sibling togetherness...
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