Today is the Fourth of July. Hoorah!

Hot dogs. Cherry Pie. Parades. Fireworks.

Ugh.

I hate fireworks.

I know what you’re thinking. I’ve heard it a thousand times before. But I just don’t see the appeal. It’s loud and smelly and crowded and, well? Isn’t that enough of a reason?

Someone recently told me that I would like fireworks if I’d seen really good ones. Like the ones in New York City on the Hudson River? Yup. Seen those. Like the Baltimore Harbor from a 17th floor corner office with cocktails? Been there. The Washington Monument with all the bells and whistles? Uh huh; that too.

So when it started to rain tonight, I got all excited.

WE DON’T HAVE TO GO!

But wait. Andrew pulled up all the weather charts. The moving maps. The radar. “Lucky for us,” he told me, “the rain will be over in plenty of time to get to the lakefront for the fireworks.”

Lucky. That’s just the word I was thinking, too.

Well, this is alarming thing to read when sitting in the ladies’ room. Is there someone behind me? All my customers? OMG.

Liz sent me this. I’m still laughing.

Meantime, I’m on deadline so no time for banter… more coming soon!

Sometimes, an article has such a great headline that I can’t resist reading it.

Does This Economy Make My Butt Look Big? in today’s AdAge talks about how the diet industry is suffering in this economy.

I was excited when school ended because it meant NO MORE MAKING LUNCHES!

Well, so I thought.

Two of my guys are in lacrosse camp this week and, as it turns out, they take a lunch break! So I brought out a new container of Jif.

Clearly, this is some happy peanut butter.

And when I made the sandwiches, Reed was freaked out that I made it look like something from Scream.

People send me things. Lots of (ahem) wonderful jokes and video clips. This one landed in my email box today from an old friend. I have to admit I was skeptical. Not that his sense of humor isn’t terrific, it’s just…. well, he thinks lots of things are funny.

But this had me laughing out loud. Literally.

This is a pin of my high school mascot - circa 1979. They called it a Miller. But clearly, folks, it’s a Beaver.

Who thought that was a good idea?

I can’t even imagine.

I can’t send a hello to Fightin’ Mad Mary’s husband anymore. Okay, I never did. But I would. (He’s very handsome!)

I can’t order more than one of anything - well, not in prose anyway.

I can’t talk to Sarah G. about her hobby.

I can’t discuss the major types of research - the kind that is interpretative or the kind that has lots of numbers.

I can’t talk about the figure-head of England and I can’t discuss the makeup line that I loved as a young woman.

I have something I want to know, but I can’t ask.

You don’t know how much you’ll miss it until it’s gone.

I don’t know what to do.

Letter #17 died on my beloved keyboard today.

I think I’m going to uit for the day.

Sigh.

More soon.