Somehow being home alone when such an event occurs makes it feel like the loneliest place in the world. I did call my family.

My mother�s reaction was typical, as was my frustration with her. She flipped the TV on, and then proceeded to tell me what she was going to do and to ask about my plans for the weekend. In the face of a national tragedy. I was furious, told her off, and hung up. I am not proud.

A national tragedy, people.

Later that night there was dinner with Jeremy and another friend, and she confessed to feeling nothing. She proceeded to cast judgmental eyes on the amount of food we were eating. I was livid on all accounts.

I can�t solve it all, but starting now (or whenever I�ve treated the aforementioned friend to sufficient meals that I no longer owe her money for the concert ticket), I�m not eating with women who�re dieting. Ever. After all, I�m sensible enough to realize that though I�m doing better, the events of last year are sufficient to warrant a moratorium on meals with people who have unhealthy ideas regarding food. There will be no more judgmental eyes cast toward me for finishing my salad, which it might be noted was not the mountain of blue cheese our companion picked at, leaving plenty of lettuce left on the plate. If Jeremy hadn�t been there, it would�ve been ugly. He�s a brick.

I will eat with gusto until I�m full, and I�ll be damned if reproachful looks will stop me.

It�s not her fault I�ve kept her at a safe distance from nasty, dull facts, yet I maintain it�s a jackass sort of thing to do, regardless of the situation.

Because let�s just say this�I exercise. At this point in my life, it�s pretty damned obvious that if I wish body parts to remain where they�re supposed to be and wish them to be somewhat shapely, exercise is far more important and effective than taking the approach of starving myself and lecturing everyone else at the table about what they�re eating, how many points a beer is, etc. If I manage to restrain myself and don�t see fit to phone you after every 45-minute bike ride or walk each day, you can keep your damning eyes off my reasonably balanced meal. Got it?

And one more thing: Every time I cook a real meal for myself, I am reminded of why I don�t do it very often. Even after eating huge bowls of vegetable/barley casserole for lunch and dinner yesterday, it�s safe to say I�ll be eating it for supper every night this week. The recipe said it made four portions, but the 5 large containers in the fridge claim otherwise. Next time I cook, I�ll have to flag down random motorists on my road for help eating it all.

That is, if I don�t succeed in chopping my thumb off altogether next time I cook. I don�t think I can bowl this week with the huge gauze and tape monstrosity on my bowling thumb. The Slingshots will be so disappointed.

I ramble. I must mention the concert, too. I would�ve loved much more of Kim Richey and much less of the Indigo Girls. (Jeremy fell asleep during the IG portion. Several times.) Maybe that�s sacrilege, but it�s true. KR is brilliant. I wish I could�ve stood the crowd at the end to chat with her and get her to sign a disk. And the performing arts venue was, well, odd. Since most shows I see are general admission in bars, anything with seats throws off the concert vibe for me.

I do enjoy this performing arts venue, though, for the hilarious ways it draws just the sort of stereotype audience you�d expect. This town never feels particularly diverse to me, yet show up for a tabla and sarod concert, and there are hundreds of Indians in the crowd. The Black Watch? A theater full of robust white men in kilts. Indigo Girls? Yep, you guessed it. It�s fascinating. I suspect the administration pays actors to lend an air of authenticity to the shows. After all, I was there.

Hah.

Somebody�s left me a gift over the weekend. There�s a plastic Betty Spaghetti doll waving and smiling down on me.