Tomorrow morning, the other Pink Torpedoes (minus Anne--we'll miss you!) will get in a car with coffees, snacks, and a bust of Abraham Lincoln.
It's the first official PT vacation, and we're going to be spending time touring monuments and museums, gazing at cherry blossoms, and eating Easter candy.
I will also busy myself by being consumed with wishing that The West Wing were still on television and still taping in D.C. so there would be a small chance I might happen upon a crew shooting one of those scenes where Bradley Whitford roughs up some Congressman on a random D.C. street. There would be nothing better. If, for example, I ever got to be this close to Bradley Whitford, I would pass out and die, and Amy, Becky, and Steph would have to take me up by the heels and drag me back to the hotel where they would be forced to revive me with smelling salts and a belt of vodka.
Here's hoping we find them shooting a top secret reunion special among the blossoms. I am not above rushing the set. Not one bit.