Today felt like summer. Kat, Sarah and I spent a blissfully sunny afternoon lounging about Hains Point — they swam in the pool, I walked around by the Potomac — then, for dinner, we smacked the hell out of hard shell crabs in Chesapeake Beach, Maryland.

I had a tough time with the initial de-shelling of the crabs. I could start the opening process, and I could smack the meat out of the shell with the little mallots, but I couldn’t do the part where you scoop out the crab’s lungs and whatever else it ate before it died. So I would pop them open (there’s a little tab on their undersides, it’s like opening a beer can) and then hand them to Kat, who would deftly gut and crack them into two pieces with one fell swoop. (This is why we have friends.)

Afterwards we stopped for hot fudge sundaes at the Tastee Freeze and thanked our lucky stars that we had already powered through adolescence, unlike the angst-ridden throngs of belligerent teenagers in the parking lot playing cards.

On the drive home, we almost died because of an attractive man in the next lane who kept looking over at us and licking his lips.

“This is a sign you need to go: When every 12 months, everyone you work with is suddenly replaced by younger, more naive versions of themselves. It’s like you’re a member of Menudo.” — Mark

For the past three days, I’ve had the “I’m leavin’ on a jet plane” song stuck in my head. I burst out singing it every now and again. I even surprise myself with it sometimes. This afternoon I started singing “so kiss me and smile for me…” and I thought, What the heck is that song? And then I got to the next verse. Ah yes. I’m leeeeeeavin’, on a jet plane….. More accurately, I’m leaving in some form of truck. But still.

My improv class is funny. I mean, funny like interesting. I don’t know what I’m doing most of the time, but that doesn’t much matter, because no one really does. There are about ten of us who show up on any given week. Half the people have recently moved here from Ohio. We have our class in the South Nap Room of a private elementary school, so we spend a lot of time sitting cross-legged on plushy carpet.

Our instructor is a freelance journalist, unassuming and average-looking, who from what I gather was a lot more shy and reserved before he started doing improv two years ago. He has a really calm, authoritative, Zen-ish way of explaining things. Part guru, part baseball coach. “So, let’s look at this scene again. When your partner said he had that cell phone with the smart bomb, how did that make you feel?”

Anyways, for the time being, it’s more fun than yoga. (I’m not very flexy.) Here is a megaphone about pancakes, puppies and fearlessly looking like an ass.

I’ve been wearing the same shirt every day since I got my teeth out. Ok, that’s not true. I’ve been wearing different shirts to work. But I’ve been wearing the same shirt otherwise. It’s pale yellow and very soft and says Moosejaw on the front. And it’s kinda smelly at this point. I’m not sure why I feel compelled to wear it, but it’s now something of a superstition. Like it will help all my sockets heal up nicely. One is already being pesky. Gotta love dry sockets. Eww.

— Update, 8/21: Changed shirt.