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The weekend was glorious, but now I bear the pain of the weekend being over. Having once glimpsed paradise, paradise is now denied me, and the pain is worse for the glimpse. (Maybe I just feel that way because I spilled coffee all over myself this morning? And when I got to work I realized it's a street sweeping day and our old car was parked illegally and I had to leave work and go back home to move it, feeling dumb and annoyed all the while?)

We headed down to Mountain View on Saturday for writing group, which was pleasant, then rolled on to Santa Cruz that evening. Scott and Lynne have a lovely new house (only a block away from their old house), and they were perfect hosts. I love Santa Cruz. it's wonderful, even with e. coli on the beaches and water restrictions, as they've had this summer. Maybe we should move back there. But then, I think that every time I go back, and here I've been in Oakland for the past six years... (Wow, I just realized: almost exactly six years. Six years and a couple of weeks. Huh.) We played cards, and watched Borat (which I enjoyed more than I'd expected to), and played more cards at Pergolesi, and had a fabulous decadent meal at The Red, and ate bagels, and walked in the sunshine, and looked at books, and antiques, and bought cookies, and, yeah, it was wonderful. And, too soon, it was Sunday evening, and we had to come home. But it was great to have one last lovely pre-baby mini-break, even if Heather couldn't join in for the drunken revel portions of the festivities...

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