You can almost hear it scream.

Say, feel like reheated crap? Think you’d rather scrap it all and move to a grass hut than wash out your coffee cup one more time? It’s time to air out your glad rags and throw a potluck.

My back is kicking my ass. There’s no getting around that. I spent the morning yesterday trying to figure out how to get out of bed. It took practice and it was really bad news, since Pete and I had invited half my sisters, one-third of my nieces and nephews and one-quarter of my brothers-in-laws to dinner with several of my oldest, dearest friends and some delightful new friends, by which I mean we met twenty years ago. Pete and I prepared roast chickens in advance, along with spicy quinoa salad, a blueberry buckle, cornbread and homemade applesauce. Just before guests arrived, I showered, donned the attitude adjuster at left and marched back to the dining room.

We had charming conversation, learned a great deal from our friend spending every day with Occupy Wall Street and laughed until 2. If I played my cards right, maybe no one even noticed my back attacking.