Damn. When did Tuesday get here? What happened to the holiday weekend? Why is God doing this to us? I mean, we don't deserve this.

Not us Americans, anyway.

Know what's weird? When my computer died, and I was gone for a while, my number of favorites jumped up to 57. When I came back and started writing again, three of the people who had added me decided to ditch me. They were obviously not ready for this relationship. They were more in love with the idea of FadeIn than the reality.

My only goal for the weekend was to perfect my impersonation of Peter Sellers as Dr. Strangelove. It's already pretty damn good. I've nearly nailed the voice, the face, and the smile. Unfortunately, I was unable to achieve this goal. Going to rent the movie and watch it again may have helped.

OK, where to begin? Sunday morning: It began under the usual auspices. I was all coffee'd up, and was online to do my thang and check out this little site called D'Land. I discovered that Midge had been to my guestbook, where she informed me that she was working and had suggested I stop by her restaurant. "Yes," I thought. "This makes sense." I was hungry, I was feeling adventurous, and I felt the time had come to see what she was all about. I called my pal Nick and left a message on his voice mail, suggesting we meet to eat. Antcipating a positive response, I got dressed to impress.

At that point, I only had two pressing concerns: First, Nick isn't an internet person. He checks his email and uses The Google, but he isn't into using AIM, or chatting, or any of the stuff us cult members do. How to explain that we were going to meet a girl off the internet? How to explain Diaryland? Do I reveal the secret location of FadeIn? Fortunately, there's a reason Nick is a good friend, and it's because we have shared many a misadventure since we met in kindergarten. I was sure he'd be bemused, chagrined, and most importantly, hungry.

Second: Going would finally put to rest the age old question, Is Midge Hot? And, if so, might she make a good Substitute Girlfriend for the remainder of the weekend? I mean, could she jump right in there with the hand holding and cute little voices? How is her nagging style? Subtle? Overbearing? Can she tolerate a dirty bathroom? Does she, as I imagine for some reason, look a little bit like Tina Fey but with shorter hair? These issues are tabled for now, as what happened next suddenly took priority over the next 48 hours.

My aunt called. My mom was in the ER.

The only reason I can be so jovial now is because it was only appendicitis, thank God.

There are images that will be forever etched on my brain from the last time I was in an emergency room. I'm talking specifically about the time my dad had his stroke. Seeing my father in that hospital bed, the way he looked...I was calm the entire time on the surface, but as I prepared to pull back the curtain and enter my mother's little partitioned room, my mind played out all the possibilities. Was I going to be confronted with another indelible image? Had my aunt just said it was appendicitis on the phone, so I wouldn't drive over hysterically?

I entered, of course. She looked tired. She was on morphine. She was going to be OK.

I spent six hours with her, until they took her to the CAT scan. She was in and out of conciousness, sometimes more lucid than not. I went to buy a magazine. I wanted something light, like EW, but I didn't find anything I wanted besides Wired and Discover. The universe displayed it's sick sense of humor by putting an article about unusual, misdiagnosed, and, most hilariously, fatal appendicitis in the Discover. That was a gem. I showed the surgery team the article, they had a good laugh at the irony, and reassured me that my mom was a classic case.

She had the surgery Sunday night, and went home yesterday.

I spent the rest of the weekend being my usually lazy self. I was going to go out for a drink Sunday night, but I just wasn't up to traveling after all that. Why does everyone I know live down in Wicker Park? Bastards.

So, Sally is back from Sweet Georgia now. That's very nice. We spent last night taking pictures of one another in a variety of situations that involve Ritz crackers. You heard me. More on that later, as I have to go serve the needs of the ill. I will, however, tell you that the Ritz thing involves J. Walter Thompson, an hour and a half of our time, and $120.

Damn. I can't believe it's Tuesday.