To Hoboken we go, as our son steps into the next chapter

Granted the gift of a beautiful day, we are Hoboken, New Jersey, bound in an oversized white van that I'm sure as heck happy not to be driving. (Here's where my husband's Salvadoran born-and-bred unflappability comes in especially handy. I bore witness to it on the tight streets of Philadelphia yesterday. I closed my eyes when necessary.)

Our son, like us, lives a minimal life, and it's times like these that I'm especially glad for that. I'm also especially glad that he has found a room that he loves in a town he's been talking about for years. I'm even more glad that he has landed a job that thrills him, in his media analysis field.

(Just wait until they find out how great a writer this analytical guy also is.)

Client work done, student letters written, taxes in the envelopes, six pairs of trousers cleaned and ironed (also that suit), and additional laundry spinning, we soon go. Melissa Sarno says that I need to get myself a Frank Sinatra fedora.

Sarno, I'm on the case.

Jennifer Hubbard says I do not write as badly as I think I do.

I'm going with that as well.