Me thinks she doth share too much.

M. and I just returned from a five-day sojourn to South Carolina, where we enjoyed turkey with my sister and her family and, briefly, my parents; toured various and sundry parts of Charleston, ranging from the sublime to the less-than; and re-learned why it is that living in Manhattan is akin to living in a giant, plastic-wrapped bubble filled to the brim with equal parts open-mindedness, common sense and adequate cardiac health, and then sealed off and separated from the rest of the Bubble-at-Large by miles and miles of water and pavement and spare SUV tires and patriotic car magnets.

This being the case, I am tired.

Lest a full seven days go by between postings, however, I will reach into the cavernous bowels of my cavernous head to share 3 knee-jerk, unrelated facts which have been swimming around my skull in recent weeks, and which, if read in the correct order and with the right intention, hold the promise of shedding considerable light onto this whole wedding business.

1. My last therapy session ended with My Therapist commenting, pointedly but apologetically, "So...the question is, why does everything always have to come back to you?" In other words, why does the world revolve around me. The reason he asked this is because he has tremendous and uncanny insight into my inner tickings. I don't have the answer yet, but it feels like a step in the self-actualized direction to share, openly, the fact that I am selfcentric.

2. I have recently been pleased to find that lately, when I am provoked in the merest of miniscule ways, my face, scalp and neck have been less prone to breaking out in hives. I have recently been displeased, however, to find that said hives have now migrated to my throat. The inside of my throat.

3. One of my earliest memories - - right after the one where my mother's friend dresses up like a clown and terrorizes me on the busride to the circus - - is of my two sisters putting Clearasil(TM) on my nipples which, they tell me, are in fact pimples. My siblings also used to take turns writing on my bum with magic markers before plopping me into the tub. And when my parents had friends over for dinner, they (my siblings) would put me in a dress and shove two tennis balls down the chest before sending me stumbling awkwardly, yet delightedly, into the living room to greet my audience.