Live from Shangri-La

I lost my planner. Not such a big deal, it might seem. I'm not overly dependent on it. I thought perhaps it was under some papers in the dining room, and hadn't given it much thought until earlier tonight, when Kevin called to tell me he'd just heard from his dad. My planner was found in the back of Kevin's stepmom's SUV, which we'd borrowed last week to pick up our sofa.

Okay, not such a big deal. One might expect relief. Not me. My planner is a pocket-sized notebook filled with strange art and weird anniversaries put out by an anarchist bike organization, and as such, is not immediately recognizeable as a planner. My name is, regrettably, nowhere on it. Since I usually remember where I need to be, I generally have lots of room to scrawl notes about the events I write down, diary style. The diary of a fourteen-year old.

What this means, exactly, is that when Kevin's dad says, "It took us a while to figure out who it belonged to," he means they (including his 13 year old sister) probably deduced it by way of all the explicit references to the sex I was having with their son, scrawled in dreamy script surrounded by little hearts.

I made Kevin go pick it up. I was too busy blushing sheepishly at home to face them.