My husband and I had a camping trip planned with our super-fun neighbors and their cute toddler. Plans changed and unfortunately, they had to cancel. That left my husband and I alone in the wilderness by ourselves in our white-trash trailer.
Remember how I was trying to get my husband to plan a romantic getaway? This was not what I had in mind, but be careful what you wish for. I threw a couple extra bottles of wine in the cooler and hoped that we wouldn't end up in a staring contest with nothing to talk about.
We set up camp, (not fighting once) and got comfortable in the fancy patio furniture we took from our back porch. I did not want to take it because it cost a fortune and I thought it would get ruined, but I admitted to my husband that I was glad he talked me into it. He just smiled.
I let him play his iPod first. We have very different taste in music, but I was pleasantly surprised when I heard "Grandma's Feather Bed". I didn't even know my husband liked John Denver. Ally's mom worshipped John Denver and we were force to listen to it growing up. Funny how I could remember all the words.
Dinnertime came and somebody forgot to pack the weenie roasters. I am not saying who, but it wasn't me. With no microwave (and no wire hangers), my husband suggested we boil them. Gross. I suggested we whittle our own hot dog sticks, old school. I could only find one usable stick on the ground. It's not like the old days when you could just rip a branch off a tree--our family respects the "Leave No Trace" law. Anyway, we felt like kids taking turns whittling that crooked branch and were both amazed when the wieners didn't fall off into the fire.
The next day we jumped in the truck and explored the nearby beach towns. We went for long walks and even held hands on the pier. I grabbed fancy hotel brochures along the way, just in case, for next time.
To make a long story short, we did have a fun, romantic weekend.
Okay, here it is again - I'm a licensed massage therapist. But I don't do massage. I'm certified in a specialized therapy technique for sports injuries. It is often uncomfortable, the recipient is clothed, there's lots of motion and it's highly effective. I really don't even remember how to do regular massage. So I don't really think of myself as a "massage" therapist, if that makes any sense. This is relevant later.
So I have this regular patient. He's a body builder/lifter/personal trainer. Super smart guy - one of the best trainers I've ever met as far as knowledge and education goes. I've been seeing him forever, he tells me anything, and swears in front of me as if I was his sister. He recently had a fairly catastrophic (for his lifestyle, not for everyone) injury to his shoulder where he completely tore a rotator cuff muscle. He is functioning well and adjusting to not having that muscle intact, but as his body adjusts, he is experiencing some pain and spasms in some surrounding, stabilizing muscles.
He was telling me that he was seeing a neurologist friend of his to try to get his pain under control without narcotics.
"I refuse to take more than two a day, and it just isn't enough. But I'm not taking more. Next thing you know your like Brett Favre taking 6, 8, 10 a day," he said.
I don't follow those scandals much, but thinking of the latest Brett Favre scandal which was impossible to miss in the media, I said, "And next thing you know you send inappropriate texts to your massage therapist."
I really was just making a joke about the scandal. Clearly, it popped out of my mouth before my filter considered the appropriateness.
After a split second pause that I probably imagined, he blew right over it, and kept rattling on about whatever else he was talking about. I spent the next 10 minutes sweating, humiliated, hoping he didn't think I meant that I thought HE would send ME a text like that, replaying what I said in my head, and mostly wanting to curl in a ball under the front desk and hide.
So how about that crazy weather we've been having, huh?
You may be wondering what my dog loves about summer more than any other time. Well, her Boy is home all day during summer. That's what makes summer special for my dog.
Her typical day starts by looking at me through one eye when I get out of bed. But she doesn't move from her bed until Hubs gets up, sometimes even an hour later.
She then goes out, does her potty thing, and sniffs every inch of the yard in case it was invaded by strange animals, or even aliens, overnight. Then she comes in, and demands her morning butt scratch. You know, where you scratch the base of her back just above her tail. That wondrous spot that a dog can't reach. Sometimes she eats breakfast (other times, she sniffs it, deems it unworthy and decides she'll eat later).
And then she goes back to bed. Usually upstairs on a puffy dog bed in the loft outside the Boy's room. She sleeps until his teenage self gets out of bed, then she wiggles with happiness that her whole "pack" is finally up and out from behind closed doors. She demands his attention which he happily gives her, and she generally looks blissful. Usually she manages to get him to play a few minutes of ball, adding to the joy of doghood.
With any luck, I will take her for a run. THIS is a banner kind of morning. The best of the best. Because a run means she can poop somewhere inconvenient on the way, forcing me to carry a small bag of warm dog shit in my hand while running. We believe she actually holds her poop until later in the day just on the off chance that it's a run day.
She then returns to one of her puffy beds and sleeps some more, occasionally rising to bark through the window at a neighbor who closes his car door wrong, or one who dares to take a walk in their own neighborhood.
Around lunch time, she manages to wake for a while to go check the backyard again and chase away any birds that may have stopped by. Maybe poop if it was a non-run day. And if she's really lucky, the sun will be out and she'll lay at the top of the hill in the backyard where she can keep an eye on the world and soak up the sun at the same time.
After lunch (ours, not hers - she only eats twice a day) brings another nap. Then in later afternoon she finally acts like a dog for a while - going in and out, trying to wrestle up a game of fetch, and watching the neighborhood out the windows.
As dinner is prepared she hangs around, under foot and in the way, in case something worthy of her attention should accidentally fall to the ground. Say a steak, or maybe a block of cheese. Then she is given her dinner, usually with some pan scrapings or broth of some dinner preparation thrown in. After we set it down, she takes a minute to sniff the air to make sure nothing better is coming her way.
After her dinner, she gets her baby (a soft shark dog toy) and walks around with it in her mouth whining. This is called "After Dinner Baby" and we have absolutely no idea what it means.
Then the telepathic communication starts. She stares deep into my eyes, silently sending me messages that I should give her a bone to chew on. She will often try to "lead" me to the kitchen if I walk anywhere in the house. Finally I give in, because I hate being stared at. She gets a bone. She chews it for about 20 minutes, and when we tell her "Bone time is over", she runs it to the kitchen and drops it on the floor in front of the fridge, waiting for me to "exchange" it for a treat from the magic cookie jar on top. Because the bone wasn't treat enough, apparently.
Happy that she has gotten everything she wants in a day, she goes back to the puffy bed in the living room and sleeps until bedtime. At which time she excitedly runs to the back door to go out one more time, where she does her potty thing, and then gives one last bark to the ghosts in the dark.
She finds that Baby, wherever it is, walks around our room with it in her mouth, whining. Again, we have no idea what it means. Then she crawls into the open crate in our room, curls up on her double stuffed princess bed and snores the night away.
What? You think my dog is spoiled? You think my dog has us wrapped around her paw? Don't judge. If I could come back for a second life, I'd want to come back as my dog. Not any dog. My dog. Because she has The Life. And it's a good life.
I had a nice, pleasant weekend, with real summer weather (OMG - don't fall over, but I'm NOT complaining about the Northwest weather today!). Saturday I ran, did a strength workout, went to a picnic for my husband's state racquetball association where I knew no one and only went for the food, later had a delicious grilled salmon dinner, followed by a movie I fell asleep during (The Usual Suspects). Sunday went on a great bike ride with Hubs, did endless loads of laundry and enjoyed the warm weather and sunshine. It really was a wonderful weekend. But didn't really leave me feeling like coming up with something interesting to say here.
So, here's a little meme I found to start the week off.
What time did you wake up this morning? 6:30am. Even though I don't have to work until 11am today, don't have young kids that wake me, and it's an exercise recovery day, so no work out, I pretty much wake up early anyway. Because I'm nothing, if not predictable. Besides, it gives me time to check email and blogs before hitting the shower.
Can you sing? Can I? Yes. Should I? Probably not. At least not in public. Okay, well, I was in choir for a couple of years in high school, but that's a group thing, and my voice hid well in a group. I wanted to crawl under the piano when we had to do solos for a final in the class. But in the car by myself? I sing loud and proud.
Can you dance? Yes, when enough alcohol has circulated the room so that no one will remember what I looked like. Actually, I've always wanted to learn how to swing dance. I'm not sure either Hubs or I have enough rhythm to pull it off, but it looks fun. My head thinks I could do it, I'm just not sure my feet agree. Okay, I'd be happy learning the Electric Slide.
Do you smoke? Nope.
Do you drink? Alcohol? Yep. Coffee? Yep. Soda? Nope.
Can you swim? Define "swim"... I mean, when I was a kid, I was a champ at swimming laps under water without coming up for air. I could spend an entire day in the pool. I did learn a basic crawl and preferred the breast stroke. I can stay afloat forever in my own mix of dog paddle-swim-stroke. But a good strong crawl stroke? I wish I did. I'd be tempted to try a triathlon if I could. Just a small one...
Year you were born? I could tell you, but then I'd have to kill you chase away all the younger readers that might want to stick around. I fear being called 'old'.
Favorite color? I can honestly say, I don't have one favorite color. I do, however, LOVE color. And yet find myself choosing safe colored clothes. The one day I'll look in my closet and groan at all the "safe", boring, dull things hanging there.
Sleep with or without clothes? Oh Lord, with. One of my biggest fears is my house catching on fire in the middle of the night and me having to run into the street in front of all the neighbors stark naked.
What time do you go to bed?10-11pm. Unless I'm really tired, then I will put myself to bed at 9 or 9:30pm, read one page of a book, and fall asleep like a baby. Drives Hubs nuts, as he comes to bed and tosses and turns and hears every noise all night long.
And there you have the things you really had no desire to know about me.
On weekend mornings I usually get up early, work out or go for a walk by the beach, then relax on my front porch with a cup of coffee and the newspaper. If I am not too lazy, I will even do some dishes and start some laundry--all while my husband sleeps or watches a NASCAR race in bed.
I (sadly) accepted years ago that my family wasn't going to wake up at sunrise and cheerfully join me at the kitchen table for breakfast and chitchat. Everybody's different. So, you can imagine my surprise when my husband accepted my offer to get bagels the other morning. He requested strawberry cream cheese on a toasted honey wheat bagel. I got egg whites and tomato on a jalapeno bagel, to which I added hot sauce. Not that you need to know our orders, but it kinda shows how opposite we are. Strawberry cream cheese? Gross.
Anyway, I returned with breakfast and he actually came downstairs to join me at the kitchen table. We sat across from eachother, eating our bagels in silence. Then he cut a huge fart, followed by a loud burp. I kept my eyes averted and waited for an "excuse me". After counting to ten in my head, I looked up at him to see his face covered in pink strawberry cream cheese.
"You have cream cheese all over your face," I said, barely able to hide the disgust in my voice.
"So, wipe it off.
"It's just going to get all over my face after I wipe it off," he said, beginning to sound annoyed at me. "I am not going to waste a napkin."
"That's what napkins are for," I said, through gritted teeth.
He started to raise his voice. "I'd like to see you eat this bagel and cream cheese and not get it all over your face!"
Seriously?! "It's NOT about the cream cheese!" I yelled. (Here comes my rant) "I wanted to be outside on the porch with the paper and eat my breakfast, but nooooo! I sat here at the kitchen table with YOU to enjoy some time together. You have ignored me and farted and burped. You have absolutely NO manners. Would you eat like that out in public?!"
I gathered the rest of my bagel and stomped out of the kitchen to the front porch.
He continued to eat his bagel and read the paper with shit all over his face.
Later, way later, that day, my husband said, "I am sorry about the cream cheese."
The other day The Boy and I had been out and we had some Chinese food for lunch. We’d been in a hurry and had only eaten a little. I sent him in with the leftovers to put in the fridge and went off to get my hair cut and run some errands.
A piece of information that will come in handy later: we’d had roast chicken the night before - something that my son and husband love, but I only eat because it’s there.
Me, handing The Boy the leftover Chinese food: “Don’t let Dad eat all my food. He can have some, but he needs to save me a few bites.”
Fast forward. I return home, starving, and find only The Boy’s Orange Chicken (gross) and some fried rice in the fridge. My General Tsao Chicken was missing.
I yell up the stairs to Hubs in his office, “Did you eat my chicken?”
Me: “Did The Boy eat it?”
Him: “I don’t know when he would have,” he said. “He left right away.”
Me: “That little shit!” And I proceeded to eat more than half his leftover Orange Chicken, leaving him only a few bites.
A bit later I wandered upstairs and said, “I still can’t believe he ate my General Tsao Chicken and left me his gross Orange Chicken.”
Him: “Oh, he didn’t eat that. I ate it.”
Me: *blink, blink* "Why in the hell did you say no when I asked if you ate it?" I had a sinking feeling as I considered the mere bites of Orange Chicken left in the fridge. Shit.
Him: “I thought you meant the leftover chicken from last night. The Boy said I could have the stuff he brought home.”
Post info: The Boy says he specifically told Hubs he had to save me some. Hubs says The Boy just said he could have it all. I believe The Boy. Hubs never really listens to the whole sentence anyway.
And that’s the story of how I owe The Boy some more Orange Chicken. I'll be sure to get the money from Hubs' wallet.
Link up with Stasha at The good life for Monday Listicles. I know. It's Tuesday. I'm slow.
Weird title, right?
Your air conditioning is on, isn't it?
You had to wear your sunglasses to get the mail?
Jeans haven't graced your legs since May for fear they'd sweat into place?
Yeah, not so much here. Summer really hasn't shown up, except for a week of nice weather where the one day it topped 80, I actually heard people say it was "too hot". Which made me want to cut someone.
I live 10 months a year in gray misery, to soak up and restore in summer. Because summer here is like no where else - it's drop dead gorgeous.
But it's gone missing. So if you see it hanging around, send it our way, K? Thanks.
In the meantime, I'm looking for the positive side of things.
1) We haven't had to spend a lot on water yet. I think we had the sprinkler on once. I hate reeling that hose in and out anyway. (no sprinkler system on our postage stamp sized lot)
2) Things are very green. Even the 10,432 weeds in my yard that are THRIVING in this cool, damp weather.
3) While my raspberries have failed to produce anything but wildly growing foliage, our greens are growing like mad. Lettuce, spinach, chard - anyone? I've got enough to feed a pet store full of turtles and rabbits. Don't they eat greens?
4) I'm thinking of doing a giveaway featuring the shorts and tanks I bought and haven't been able to wear - it might gain me readers!
5) We never had to pull out the pop-up shade canopy for baseball games. It's kind of bulky to haul around anyway.
6) I've been saved a whole season of sun damage to my skin by not sitting in the sun for baseball.
7) I haven't had to restock on sunscreen yet.
8) I can run anytime of day, because it's never "too hot".
9) I haven't had to fight my once a year urge to go camping. Not even once.
10) It will make vacation in 23 days that much sweeter. Spending time somewhere that it reaches 90+ everyday will be a great treat!
There's my positivity for the day.
Seriously, though, if you see summer lurking around and looking lost, send it to the Northwest. Mmmm-kay? Then I could find something else to blog about beside our crappy weather...
We have a guest room. It's painted a lovely shade, decorated with colors and things I love. It's peaceful and calming. I'm thinking of moving in.
My family thinks the guest room is where you put things you no longer want. For instance, if The Boy finds clothes he no longer wears or fits into, I find a pile of clothes on the guest room floor. Rarely folded, usually heaped. If Hubs finally parts with an item of clothing from 1990, I find it in the guest room. Books no longer read? Guest room. Things to be sold on eBay? Guest room. Toys that no longer fit the "teenage" mode of The Boy's bedroom? Guest room. I think you get the idea.
A few weeks back Lela was visiting Seattle. She was staying with her parents, but they live an hour away. We tentatively planned on her spending the night with me, as we were going to have some friends over and drink wine. No driving allowed. The friends stood us up - all of them. And she ended up staying with her sister. That was totally fine.
The only reason you need to know that, is because in preparation for the possibility that Lela would stay, I got the guest room mostly cleaned out.
However, this last week, The Boy, has decided he is making the final move. He no longer wants his Seattle Mariners baseball themed boyhood bedroom, complete with hand painted Safeco Field mural, that is approximatley 3' x 4' and done by moi.
No more Seattle Mariners wallpaper boarder because that's going to be a joy to remove. No, he wants a "teenage" room. Complete with framed Rolling Stone covers with bands like U2, Kings of Leon and Green Day. At least he has good taste in music. And a good eye for a bargain - he got three for $5. His drumset sits in the corner, his electric guitar, amplifier and microphone along another wall. A big lighted guitar clock (purchased for him by The Girlfriend) will soon grace the place. And he wants new paint on the walls.
All signs of childhood have been removed. No more Mariners #1 foam fingers, no more legos stashed in the closet, no books fit for children under the age of 16, no more school craft projects. The dresser has been moved into the closet, trophies from younger days put away. I'm sure the Mariners comforter is next to go. I'm happy to say that there are still signs of baseball, including a big line of balls on a shelf.
He had The Girlfriend help with this project - and God bless her, she sat with him sorting legos, went through the entire closet, every inch of his desk, and every corner of his room with him.
But as this project was taking place, I could be heard saying loudly, "Dont you dare stack that stuff in the guest room!!"
He smiled that smile. The same one he's had since he was itty, bitty. The same one that turns me into a puddle of mush every.freaking.time. And said, "Okay, where should I put it?"
Here is the hallway between his bedroom and the guest room:
I've been trying to get my husband to be more romantic so I said to him, "Treat me like your girlfriend. You know, like when we were sooo in love and dating."
A couple nights later he crawled into bed next to me. I am pretty sure The Colbert Report was on the T.V. and I was half asleep. He asked, "Do you want to cuddle?"
"Not really," I said.
"I was trying to act like we were dating."
"Not in bed!" I said. "Treat me like your girlfriend during the day!" Ugh!
* * *
My mother-in-law and I were drinking wine on the back porch and I asked her when the last time her husband (my husband's father) did something romantic. She tilted her head and swirled her chardonnay in the glass, thinking.
"He asked me on a date," she said. (Awww) "He called me from work and asked me out to dinner. I was in the middle of cooking some hamburger meat for tacos."
"Well, you didn't tell him that, did you?" I asked.
"Oh, I finished cooking it and threw it in the refrigerator. Then I got ready and he took me out to a little Mexican restaurant."
"Lucky. When was that?"
"Patrick was four," she said with a straight face.
"That was forty years ago!"
"Yep," she said, and gulped down the last of her wine.
I should have just taken the stairs in the first place.
But the elevator door was open in the lobby of my three-story doctor's office, I walked in and hit the button for the top floor. It stopped on the second floor and three people got in, well, squished in. The cute old man in overalls pressed the button for the lobby.
"This is going up," I announced. The extra passengers gave me a quizzical look and slowly shuffled out. As the elevator doors closed, I noticed that the third floor button, the one going up, was not lit. Oh, shit. The elevator was going down.
"Sorry," I whispered to the people I had just kicked out as the doors closed in their faces. I frantically pushed the third floor button but it was too late. I was headed for the lobby. I don't know why I was so embarrassed. I mean, I could have farted right before those strangers got on the elevator, so pressing the wrong button (or forgetting to press the button and then bossing innocent, elderly people off an elevator in error) is not so bad, right?
Well, there was no way I was going to ride that thing back up and have to face them again, so I headed for the stairs. The bad thing about that small, three-story office building is that the stairs are right next to the elevators and the stairwell doors are always propped open, which, now that I think about it, is a clear violation of some fire code. Anyway, I walked up the first flight and just before I reached the second floor landing, I realized I would be in full view of the people I was hiding from.
I was forced to do what any mature, adult woman would do: I hid in the stairwell. And waited until those three total strangers finally got on the elevator going down.
Like I said, I should have taken the stairs in the first place.
It's Tuesday, but I'm joining Stasha over at The Good Life for her Monday Listicles
10 reasons why husbands and wives should have separate bedrooms:
1. He's hot, I'm cold. Always. He sleeps with nothing more than a sheet and blanket in the depths of winter. I add a down throw to the comforter already on the bed.
2. Flowers. He hates them. I'm not a huge flowery person, but an occasional flower in a throw pillow wouldn't kill anyone.
3. Kicking. He gets restless legs. I get restless legs. NEVER on the same night.
4. Light. He needs it dark and quiet. I can sleep through anything. I also like to read before I go to sleep - with a light on (makes it easier to see the words that way)
5. Quiet. He needs it dark and quiet. Can't fall asleep if the tv is on, wakes up if the dog snores or moves too much.
6. Speaking of snoring... None of us are bad snorers, but he wears a bite guard, and sometimes finds a position where he's breathing through that thing with this nice little "click" at the end of his exhale - it's worse than a snore. It might make me want to smother him with a pillow... And currently we all have allergies, including the dog, which makes us all a little more susceptible to an occasional snore or three.
7. Cleanliness. I'd only have to worry about my OWN mess, or neatness.
8. Decor. I could change it as often as I wish.
9. Closets. Need I say more?
10. I don't have a #10, except to say that I wouldn't really like it all that much. But there are days (or nights) when it sounds rather appealing and it's fun to dream about it.
a busy, baseball tournament weekend with a loss in the semi-final game
dinner out with friends squeezed in
laundry, cooking and cleaning added on Sunday night
a crazy week on the schedule ahead,
a few odd things stand out:
such as a coach who had his bluetooth earbud in the.whole.game. And his Hummer's engine running the.whole.game. Same coach tried to insult the umpires calls by calling time out to rip his own catcher a new one with cussing included (telling him he had to play better because he wouldn't get help from the umpire), which got him tossed from the game. Bizarre is all I can say about it.
such as seeing an old teammate of my son's dislocate his knee cap during an at-bat. Holy patellas, that was awful. I don't know what was worse - the pop, the screaming after it happened or the look on his mom's face when she saw it. He was taken away in an ambulance with his kneecap way over on the outside of his leg.
such as seeing an unbelievable amount of scary crashes and injuries in the Tour de France, including one where a couple of riders got taken out by a camera car.
hubs volunteering to do the grocery shopping. (haha - okay to give credit, he does offer once in a while).
Anycrazies, due to a lot of busy and a fair amount of oddness, I've gone to my Happy Place today.
Photo credit: Google Images and ElementarySpirits.com
In my Happy Place, there is soft sand to scrape away the brain fog, gentle surf to wash away the stresses, plenty of sunshine to warm the spirit, a palm tree or two for cooling shade, and a peace of mind that surpasses all else.
We are getting rid of some last furniture items from my grandmother's house. I posted them individually on Craiglist, with prices in the headlines (where they make you put the PRICE in) and included pictures. All ads also had these sentences included:
"All items will be available for pick up on Saturday, July 9th between 10am and 2pm. First come, first served. Please email with any questions or address & directions! Cash only."
"hi i was wondering how much you wanted for the vintage bedroom set 555-555-5555 thank you"
Okay, I changed the phone number to protect the guilty, the rest is a direct paste and cut. Seriously? Did she really just ask me the price of something that is listed as "Vintage Bedroom Set - bed, dresser, nightstand, armoire - $100"??
"Hi my name is xxxx and I so you add I lake to now if you still sale the mattress please emaI me back i lake to bay thanks"
And her name isn't Quadruple X, like I said, I'm trying to protect the guilty.
We did arrange for three people to come by Thursday morning to pick up three separate items. We made these arrangements specifically for one guy who really, really wanted the wrought iron patio table and chairs that I wish I had the time and patience to strip and refinish. Because he really, really liked it and he really, really wanted it and he was going to be there FOR SURE. Guess which one of the three didn't show? That's right. Mr. Patio Table.
I know you are wondering why we chose to do it that way - we really don't have enough to have a yard sale or estate sale, and no one wanted to commit to sitting there for a full day. Call us crazy. Hind sight is always 20/20.
Lela always says I need to lower my expectations. She says then I won't be disappointed by others' actions. I think she's right.
One crazy lady that expects normal, rational and logical where normal, rational and logical can't be found. Slow learner, high expectations, but good in heart. 75¢ obo. Will be available for pick up Sunday at 6pm.
July 4th was nearing. Since we hadn't received any invitations to go anywhere, Hubs and I had our normal plans on the schedule - nothing. But The Boy had other plans.
Boy: "What are we doing for the 4th?"
Me: "I don't know, are you making plans with The Girlfriend?"
Boy: "Well, her family is going to their friends' house again, but since we spent last year with them, we wanted to do something with you guys this year."
You mean like when you're married and you split your time between in-laws? Is that what this 16 year old kid was telling me? Is this what it's going to be like?
Me: "Um, okay, let's find something to do."
We went to the zoo during the day. I did mention to The Boy that with the ridiculous price of entrance to said zoo, not to expect me to lay out a bunch of money for fireworks. I felt a bit like a grinch, but our neighborhood is like a war zone, and we live at the top of a hill where you can sit on our back deck and watch fireworks for miles around. Big fireworks. Like the professionals use. Because the reservation where you can buy those illegal things is close.
I know it's sideways. Bear with me. I will eventually learn that I can't turn the camera sideways while shooting video.THIS is what July 4th looks like looking down our street from our driveway! It's even better from the back deck. I told you - there's lots of fireworks to watch.
After an exhausting four hours walking around the zoo in the sun, we stopped at the store where Hubs and I ran in for bbq goods. Because I hadn't done anything exciting and in the spirit of the holiday like pre-plan a decent meal. The fireworks stand in the parking lot apparently called too loud to them, and we found the teens strolling the stand. I sighed and against Hubs' better judgement went in to buy A FEW fireworks. CHEAP ones.
Except there were no cheap ones. Holy Money Trees those damn things are expensive. I looked around. Okay, they do remember I just paid $65 to get us all in the zoo, right? And bought ice cream after? Oh and let's not forget jobless Hubs...
Me: "Wow. These are pretty expensive." Can't we just buy some sparklers? Some Pop-Its?
Boy: "Yeah, we found a couple cheaper ones. This one is buy one, get one free and it's only $20. And there's one over there that looks cool that's $5."
Seriously, everything else was $30 and up for single items. Granted, they are the big ones that send up multiple exploding, sparkling, smelling, mess making fireworks, but still. But I gave them credit for shopping for the cheapest ones they could find. We got out of there for just over $40.
Girlfriend: "Here, my dad gave me money to contribute to fireworks," handing me $10.
Me: "Oh, that's okay." What, am I nuts? Take the money! I can't take the money, that's lame. No really, let her buy some fireworks.
Girlfriend: "No, really, that's what he gave it to me for."
I took the money.
Upon arrival home, the teens zipped over to The Girlfriend's house so she could change and pick up a few things. They came back with chips, dip homemade by her mom, homemade chocolate chip cookies, and a bag of fireworks. Apparently the dad had gone to the reservation and bought a big pack and split it up and gave some to the kids. I really wanted to give her the $10 back.
I was feeling like a grinch. Did they tell her parents we hadn't bought much? Did they think we were lame and had no good food? I'm sure they were just being nice, but guilt and self-consciousness were taking over.
After dinner, I was fading, but I knew The Boy would be crushed if I didn't watch their fireworks show. After all, they'd been sorting, planning and preparing everything - including watering down the lawn. I prayed for darkness to come soon (it doesn't get dark until after 9:30 here) so I could go to bed.
Finally it was dark enough. Hubs and I wandered out front to find that the kids had set up chairs for our viewing pleasure, as well as layed out their organized fireworks.
Okay, I'm ready!
These were a couple of the teens fireworks. Not bad.
We watched, we enjoyed. When they were done, they went for a walk around the neighborhood to watch everyone else. Me? I went to bed. I can sleep through anything, including the war zone that was our neighborhood.
Confession: As the days, weeks, months of my teenager's life tick past way too quickly, I cling to these moments that he WANTS to spend with us. I may complain and make fun in my head, or wish I was sleeping, but I really wouldn't trade them for the world. Even if he and The Girlfriend act like an old married couple splitting their time between the in-laws.
Hubs is a beer guy. Craft beer (formerly known as micro-brews) is his thing. He's a homebrewer. He sits on the board of a Co-Op Brewery. He has a keg-o-rator in our garage, with taps in the pantry. No, he's not an alcoholic and doesn't overdrink, but he does truly love beer.
His dream would be to own a Bottle Shop. We've been visiting some around the area. They usually have walls lined with cold cases, as well, as shelves, with... more beer.
While he wanders the cold cases, wiping drool from his chin, I mosey around looking at labels and searching for those few bottles of wine that most of these shops carry. While I do like beer, especially on a hot summer day, wine is my preference.
I found something fun. Ever go somewhere that you wish you could take wine, but carrying a big glass bottle was not really going to work for you? I bought one of these:
Photo from Flasqwines.com
You can click it - it's a link.
I bought the Merlot, but they have Chard, too. The aluminum bottles have two full pours of wine in them. Genius. Until I realized I paid the same for one of these as I do for my favorite Cab on sale. Ah, but I paid for the uniqueness. I haven't tried it yet - I don't even have anywhere in mind to take it, but I figure an opportunity will present itself.
Then I stumbled on this label that had me laughing out loud. Loud enough that Hubs wandered over to see what exactly I was laughing at...
Panty Peeler. With the naked woman on the label. Well, it was something like 9% abv. I thought the name was brilliant. And parked next to La Trappe, well, I could make up a whole story with those two labels.
I did love this label, too:
That's my kind of lawn mowing. The beer, however, tasted like an American lager, aka: Buttwiper Budweiser. Blech and boring.
And if you like craft beer at all, you are probably used to getting it in bottles. But cans are making a comeback. Cans actually protect the beer from light damage. Yes, beer can suffer light damage. Cans are lighter than glass, which makes them cheaper to ship. Aluminum recycles cleaner and cheaper than glass. They chill faster than glass. And you can take it places you can't take glass. (See my Flasq, above!) I bought Hubs this as a new taste tester when I stopped into a shop without him:
And on a completely unrelated subject, when Lela was in town, we had some burgers after our train ride. I'm pretty sure that if you want a woman to eat at your place, you shouldn't call it this:
Being a cat lover, I normally keep my dog behind closed doors and windows if I see one of your kind in my yard. Yes, she barks, but you are safe from the heart attack she will surely give you were she to come charging after you.
However, due to the deposit you left behind in my grass, which my asshat dog decided to roll in - and I do mean really roll and grind in - all bets are off.
I now have an open door policy. You have been warned.
PS. No animals were harmed during this experience. The asshat dog even got warm water for her bath, despite Hubs wanting to just douse her with the cold hose in the 58 degree morning.
PPS. No animals will be harmed during my new open door policy. Even if the dog were to somehow catch up to the grass shitting kitty, and somehow not get her face torn off by the kitty, all she would want to do is sniff the kitty's butt and lick the kitty's ear. Because she likes ears like that.
My best friend and I have always said we are the normal ones - it's everyone else with the problems! At least it makes us feel better, even if it might not be true.
I'm the forty-something mother of a teenage boy and a black lab mix, married and living in the Pacific Northwest where I grew up.
Hubs and I lived on Maui when we met and we often dream of moving back some day.
In the meantime, I write about life. A little of this, a little of that. I love humor and probably complain too much. But that's just because the world around me isn't 'normal', like me!