The accounting.

I suppose that, at some point, I should tell you what I've been up to. Or I can make another empty promise about getting to it "someday" when I've got a little more time than I have now. Choose your pick.

The weekend ahead involves more road tripping. This time we're venturing deep into the heart of New England, breaking out the tenting gear for one last comfortable hoorah before the weather makes camping a question of endurance rather than delight. I'll be retracing steps and forcing myself into the role of unwanted tour guide as we head west into the Berkshire Mountains, stopping here to pick up some wayward Connecticutians before turning north into Vermont. (Bryan: "But if we actually stop there--if we successfully take this trip--what will you talk about incessantly every. Single. Time we are west of Springfield?")

I am expecting great things: iced coffee, waking up to a slight chill rising off the shores of Lake Champlain, the triumphant return of the Tiger Dog, mimosas at Penny Cluse, the great unwashed masses descending upon the town of Burlington, small streets and perfect clapboard churches set against impossibly beautiful New England hills, overuse of the word "quaint," flea markets, maple syrup, as much hiking as we can fit in, cheddar and apple sandwiches, campfires, and French in the air.

It almost makes a girl miss Canada.