The Road to Recovery

is paved with dance parties. The wilder the dancing, the quicker the recovery. There's some kind of scientific equation somewhere concretely proving it, trust.

The party began yesterday eve when my sister Audrey stopped by to check up on Jo. Audrey is kind of the best.  If your name is Jordan and you still wear a diaper then you call her "Otsss" at this monosyllabic stage in your life. Also, you and she are great buds.

 
Audrey came bearing gifts for all. She handed Sean a bag brimming with the BEST fried chicken this world has to offer. It's from Vons but I don't think those are national markets so I'm sorry for your loss if you're not a resident of Southern California. She produced a bottle of Hershey's chocolate pour moi that I might concoct some comfort chocolate milk or top a comfort sundae. And she brought a carton of my fav-or-ite: Tazo Chai which, when mixed with a dash of 2%, transports me from zero to bliss in 90 microwaved seconds. For Jordan, Aunt Auds procured a carbohydrated cure of rigatoni marinara from her place of employment, plus more fun in one hour than Jordan's had in the last 72 together.

The following is your 30-second assurance that Jordan is feeling oh so much better. It also serves to inform you that I hail from a family of exceptional musical talents, some of whom are able to invent lyrical masterpieces on the spot, as Audrey is. I got her poetic license to publish this so please don't violate the rights of her yet-to-be-copyrighted composition. You'll be tempted.

Also I hope you'll acknowledge that I'm raising the next Ginger Rogers or perhaps Rita Hayworth. Jordan's grace astounds.