The clock says it's Sunday morning, but any reasonable person would know that it's Saturday night.

When I went to the Persian market this morning, picking up groceries for the party, the clerk surveyed my purchases and said, "Where are you from?" I took this to mean, "You don't look Persian, but you sure shop like one," so I considered it a compliment and quoted her all evening.

Last week, when we took the dogs to the vet for routine immunizations, I asked the desk clerk where he was from. He told me, "Mexico." In the current climate, it could be scary or insulting to a Latino to be asked where he's from, so I explained, "I thought I heard a Cuban accent." He said, "Thank you." Funny that he'd consider it a compliment to be mistaken for Cuban, unless he was reading my mind. He was amazingly handsome, enough that I started hearing "Babalu" in the back of my head. I have noticed for years that Cuban-American women are stunning, enough that I formed a theory that only Cubans with beautiful daughters emigrated. I was on the verge of deciding that those beautiful daughters had handsome brothers, when I asked the vet's clerk where he was from. If he had been reading my mind, he would have known that, "I thought you might be Cuban," means, "You're gorgeous."

Enough diversion. The party was a little smaller than I expected, which would have meant I'd be left with a horrifying amount of leftovers, but I was able to persuade most of the guests to leave with care packages. I won't have to cook for a few days. I won't have to go to the farmers' market tomorrow, either; the fridges are full to bursting.

I wore the red top I made a couple of weeks ago, and got a lot of compliments on it. Tomorrow, I'll start a new project.