Summary: Amid the daily grind, Angela finds that Mona's mischief gives her an unrivaled night in impressive company.

Is it possible to get writer's block in a journal? For the last few weeks, I just haven't felt like writing very much. It seems like I've been so busy that I've only managed to sneak away long enough to record the barest details of my life, albeit with a few exceptions. It's not that life hasn't been eventful for the last several months — quite the contrary, actually. There have been several milestones (Sam turning sixteen and Tony working his way through his first semester of college); and a few embarrassments (the frat party, and the horror of catching my son being practically mauled by Heather Harper, which I'd just as soon forget ever happened). I've also been dealing with the stress of training a creative director and tolerating barely tolerable new neighbors, sprinkled throughout it all were even a few memorable moments with Tony that have been wonderful reprieves from the hassles of life and work.

But even if the events in my life were far more exciting and glamorous than the mundane and routine activities that have recently cluttered my agenda, I can say with unequivocal certainty that meeting Frank Sinatra would still have left me awestruck. It was almost a surreal experience. Even though the night-of-a-lifetime happened nearly two weeks ago, the memory is as fresh as morning coffee.

Though I'll never admit to her even under threat of death, I can't help but be a bit grateful that I have a mother who had the temerity to assume my identity to get into the ball. Tony was virtually incoherent with excitement and disbelief at getting to meet his idol, and being the personal guests of Old Blue Eyes himself was certainly far beyond my wildest expectations for the evening.

I left for Boston cursing the very account I was en route to save. Not only was I upset about missing the gala, but I knew Tony would be devastated, and that alone nearly caused me to turn around halfway to the airport. But I knew I didn't have that luxury, not at the risk of losing an account worth nearly a million dollars. I never dreamed mother would not only try to use nontransferable tickets, but actually succeed in getting past security.

I wasn't home ten minutes before I was flying upstairs to put on my gown from the Maddy banquet, and praying my hair would cooperate with the coif I was trying desperately to twist it into. I was applying eyeshadow and lipstick in the cab, not trusting myself to drive under such frustrated conditions. But as angry as I was, I couldn't suppress the tingle of excitement that I was going to attend the event after all.

And I didn't arrive a moment too soon. Five more minutes, and Mother would have ruined my reputation, and surprisingly enough, not in the manner in which Mona Robinson is used to ruining reputations. I'll admit, the company she was keeping was hardly the elite of advertising. Donald Crenshaw is known for Good ol' Boy ads featuring scantily-clad women peddling fast cars and smooth drinks. No doubt he would have been most amused by Tony's mud wrestling ads a few years ago. I'm not the least bit disappointed that I wasn't forced to endure the company of the man who didn't even recognize that my hastily made up ad for Mother's fictional Air Sicily was a blatant rip off of American Express. So much for originality in advertising.

But once we met Frank, our night was made. It didn't matter what happened before that moment or how we arrived at that point. It was like the night began when he walked us back into the ballroom. And he was everything Frank Sinatra was supposed to be: suave, articulate, witty, engaging, captivating. Tony was nothing less than starstruck, mere puddy in Frank's hands. But once he was on stage, he was a natural, stepping in time, offering perfect accompaniment, and doing improv so well you'd have thought they'd rehearsed. It was mesmerizing.

And come tomorrow, I plan to track down a video tape of the performance as a surprise for Tony. A dream come true deserves to be relieved time and time again. I may never again know a night of such unparalleled enjoyment. So amid the predictable routine in which my life seems to have settled for the time being, I will use the memory of our evening with Frank Sinatra as a reminder of the promise and excitement that could be just around the next corner.