I have syrup in my pocket

That was one of the first things April said when she hopped into the Jeep today. That's what I love about her, that she can make it until 12:30 without realizing she has an open single-serving of Mrs. Butterworths kicking around in the pocket of her tailored wool coat. I can sort of understand popping the syrup into a pocket when getting a quick breakfast to go at the deli, but that's not the sort of thing you tend to forget about... and then sit on.

As usual her life is a whirlwind of activity, travel for work, selling her house and trying to find a place to move to, drama with her oldest and youngest sisters, a giant Mastiff puppy, a fiance she doesn't have time to marry, and all the usual rigmarole that goes along with life. I haven't really seen much of April in the last couple years, with the largest gap being a year long only to be awkwardly broken with the sudden, but not entirely surprising, suicide of her mother. Talk about an awkward phone call! Not to mention the funeral. But that's how good friends are. The truest measure of a friend is someone you can back-burner for a year and then call out of the blue when you need emotional support. There are people I speak to way more regularly, some of whom I even hang out with, who wouldn't rate an appearance at a funeral for me.

I've digressed. The whole point of this was that I have rarely heard a phrase that sums up those truly hectic, crazy, discombobulated days better than, "I have syrup in my pocket".