Kate’s school had a walkathon over the weekend, to feed dollars to the hungry PTO. Of course we participated; we are, if nothing else, good school citizens. Kate walked 15 laps, about two and a half miles, and one over the number she needed to get the gold award for participation above and beyond the call, etc.

It was a festive event, with lots of kids and parents and teachers and even a DJ, who played walking music — uptempo early-to-mid-career Beatles, the Backstreet Boys, Abba, etc., and songs with “walk” in the title — “Walk This Way” being the one that played while we were doing our part. We were done halfway through the event’s four-hour length, and headed off to Target. By the time we got back, it was 3:55 and presumably the only people left were the parents and other adult volunteers, because by then the DJ was playing “Walk on the Wild Side.” While it has the word “walk” in the title, I couldn’t help but wonder if anyone was actually listening to the lyrics.

Of course, in a world where Iggy Pop tunes can be used by a damn cruise line for its commercials, is anything off limits? Don’t think so.

A lazy weekend, but not really. We closed up the lake cottage Saturday, which consisted of pulling the boat and its stakes out of the water, raking and burning all extant leaves, turning off the water and blowing all moisture out of the pipes, and (Alan’s favorite part), unbolting the toilet so that it can rise and fall on the frost-heaving floor all winter long. Doing jobs like this reminds me of why so many people are razing their summer cottages and putting up year-round homes they can retire to — sitting vacant and cold all winter long is hard on a house, particularly a flimsy little summer cottage, and for what the land they’re sitting on is worth, you might as well.

Saying goodbye to the cottage for another year is a little sad, but I cannot tell a lie: It’s always a bit of a relief. No more decisions on our weekend plans — share the child with her relatives at the lake or be selfish and stay home? Over the years I’ve gotten to where I like our long stays up there in August much better than our random weekends. With no full bathroom in our cottage, we have to bathe in the lake, and after about three days of this I stop bothering with hairstyling and, most days, makeup. In the lake mirror, I look at myself and think, you look kissed by the sun. Then I get home, look into my unforgiving bathroom mirror and say, fix your damn hair. Also, your feet are dirty.

Now I have to get to work on my pathetic excuse for a screenplay — five pages due by Wednesday — and, of course, watch “Carnevale.”

In the meantime, bloggage:

Funny story in Slate about America’s butt-crack epidemic, which is particularly acute in A2, where you have dense concentrations of young women and their peculiar fashion sense. The opening anecdote happened to me in almost every detail last spring in NYC; I love when I see my boring self reflected in the chronicles of popular culture, at least other than Country Woman: America is in the throes of a crack epidemic. Sitting in a booth with a friend at an excruciatingly hip restaurant in downtown Manhattan a few weeks ago, I glanced up to see a fleshy forest of crevices and multiple folds of skin and G-strings that three women in their late 20s were displaying for the world. It was then that I knew: This low-rider style has gone too far.

Also, if you’re not equal to the Album Cover Challenge — 60 albums stripped of their artist-and-title details, and you try to recall whose is whose — well, join the club. I got about five of them. Pathetic. I’m so old.

Finally, you always wanted the lyrics to “Baby Got Back” in Latin, didn’t you? Thought so.

More later and/or tomorrow.