In The Heat of Summer, Two Marital Moments

In case you haven't seen us in a while, here we are!

Yesterday I left the kids at home, idling in their summer torpor, and met Matt for lunch. After a pleasant interlude, we were walking out, and I said, "Do you like my toenails?" I gestured to my blue polish, which I thought was rather jaunty.

"Yes," he said.

"I did that myself, because I am frugal," I said.

"That's what passes for being frugal now?" he asked.

"Well," I explained, "With tip, it would have been $25 if I'd paid someone to do it."

"Well," he replied, "You could pay someone to wipe your ass."

Um? If anyone can penetrate the labyrinthine convolutions of this husband-logic, please elucidate. Because I was all, whut, and then like, sweetie, I love you so much that I want you to savor this moment of makin' your point and being right, right here on the sidewalk. Zing! Only what I actually said was, "Uhhh...." But it was in there, in the silence maybe.

.....

Last week we were on vacation in the Berkshires. Matt's brother and my lovely sister-in-law have a lake cottage, and we all crammed ourselves into it for a wonderful week of reading and swimming and doing nothing. One night, as Matt and I climbed into bed in our little white bedroom, it struck me that we had spent the entire day side-by-side and were now tucking in to spend several hours in a row right up against each other.

I said, drowsy, "It's nice that we don't get sick of each other."

"Yes," he said. "And for whatever reason, I've decided my highest purpose in life is to please you."

"I like all of that," I said, "Except for the 'for whatever reason.'"

And he laughed with a self-congratulatory giggle that rolled out the open window, wafted through the cool night air, and disturbed some nesting loons, possibly.

That is what's up around here. I'll be back. Meantime, I hope there's somebody who wants to please you. xoxo

Tail Feather, Shaken

Gatsbyish themed Xmas party with our buddies!

God help you if you follow me here, facebook, instagram, and twitter. If I go to a party, you have to hear about it for days on all channels. Probably eventually you'll see a picture of the mints in the bathroom, as soon as I can figure out what filter to use.

LOL jk but probably!

Matt's company had a nice party the other night. One thing I enjoy about the video game biz--or probably this is true of any creative field--they love to throw costume/theme parties and everybody always gets into it. Or there was one guy in an argyle sweater, but maybe he was dressed as an old-timey caddy! I find that having a theme helps focus one's dressing up, you know? I love going to parties with my fella. When I got the invitation and saw that it was a 1920's theme, I knew exactly what kind of dress I wanted, beads 'n' feathers. I had seen Sue Wong dresses at Saks. But I needed to find one for a non-Saks price, and I did on ebay. Late on in the evening, this artsy girl in the lobby said to me, "I've always loved Sue Wong, it's fun to see that dress being worn." And Reader, how I did glow with pleasure! Anway, feathers. Check into them.

And since we're still talking about clothes, I can't say enough to recommend a pair of nude platform heels. Where have these been all my life? I paid a full $22 for them but I think I'm going to wear them with everything. Except not everything because they are so uncomfortable. But no matter.

The face I make when I roll a 7, below-right.

Another highlight was when the DJ crossed the room to where I was standing at the craps table. He said, "I just wanted to thank you. Everything I play a new song, you start dancing in place, and I know I've made a good choice." You're welcome sir? He was having a hard time getting anyone to dance, because there was gambling.

I am one of those people who thinks she could be really good at blackjack. But, you know, I'm not at all.

Another thing that happened was my strap broke. That dress is heavy, with all the beads, and it's held up by two tiny spaghetti straps. After I didn't win a prize for my gambling prowess, several people were consoling me with hugs. I hugged back and felt my strap give way. Thank the Lord I was wearing my special bra that has its own infrastructure and public works department, so I just tucked the broken strap into the top of my bra and put my hair over it.

Usually when your dress breaks, it's time to head to the house. But I partied on a while longer. Charleston!

Oh, and a hair note. Both Kelly Ham and I wanted to have a sleek short flapper hairstyle, but we both came to the same conclusion: We couldn't achieve sleek and short, so we went with big and voluminous. And thank goodness, because I needed it for cover. Kelly's dress was 360 degrees of sequins--very pretty and sparkly. She had on the Bra of Amazement too. Is this too much information?

Anyway, now you're caught up. In the next post I'll cover the rest of the weekend's festivities and that should bring us almost up to date.

Y'all going to any parties? Tis the season to spill all the beans about them. xoxo

b

Or A Tablecloth from A Pizzeria

The other day I got a new blouse, and Matt goes, "It's like I am married to a picnic blanket."

Hmmph!

This morning, after I got the kids up, fed them breakfast, made their lunches, and got them onto the school bus, I crawled back into bed for a few minutes, and then Matt was stirring around the room getting ready for work. He asked me, as he does many mornings, "Do you know where there are some clean socks for me?"

"At the store," I said.

I mean honestly! It's like he wants to wear a clean pair of socks every single day, and that is just not sustainable for me at this point in my life.

Then I went ahead and got up. I drank coffee and looked at the rain, the rain that caused all kinds of tennis to be canceled and rescheduled today. The tennis matches are piling up out there like jumbo jets that can't get clearance to land. Sometimes I feel like an air-traffic controller. An air-traffic controller at the lowest-stress airport in the world.

I sat in my quiet house, and the instinct towards sloth threatened to overtake me. With the last shred of will I possessed, I texted Pretty Neighbor and asked if she wanted to work out in her basement. She agreed and so I was committed. This is how I get around myself.

By then Matt showed back up at the house for a lunch visit. We chatted for a bit and I said, "Goodbye, I'm going to work out with Pretty Neighbor," and he was all, "Can I come watch?" and I was like, LOL, and he was like, j/k, no really, and I was all, "I know baby."

So we did work out, for the first time in a while. We return to the Jillian Michael's workout DVDs again and again. Those plus tennis keep things on the up; tennis alone won't do it. Then I left PN's house and arrived back on my street in time to meet the elementary school bus, and my new neighbor, the one that moved into Frenemy's house, saw me and said, "Hey, where do you work out? I need to go with you sometime." And I was like, yeah! But honestly, now that PN has turned her basement space into more of a media room, there isn't really a place for a third friend to work out. Though I know the thought would put a smile on Matt's face.

This was my day.

It is truly a blog about nothing.

How are you?

A Helpful Taxonomy

I drink your milkshake.

At Betty's house Matt and I are sleeping in a queen-sized bed instead of the king we have at home. Today I said, "Maybe we should go back to a queen bed, I like the extra cuddling." And Matt was like, we don't need a smaller bed, we could just turn down our thermostat. It is chilly down there in the basement guest room, and all night long we are plastered together like climbers caught in a storm on Everest.

I lay awake late into the night last night, reading my book and listening to the dog snore. Then I didn't get out of bed until in the elevens. I'm not even kidding and I am not ashamed. Then, a brunch of leftovers, some sitting around, a photo session for our Xmas cards (anybody know how to do a head swap?), then a singles tennis match with my friend the other Becky. Matt and the kids went and got a tree for Betty's front room, and then Matt and I went downtown to dinner with our friends.

These are our Four Loko friends. If you haven't read that post, I can't recommend my own work highly enough. LOL jk but really. 

The other three of the party all went to high school together, and talk between Matt and Sloan turned to the topic of Who Was An Asshole. The game went that one of them would say, "You know who was an asshole? [Name.]" And then the discussion would proceed and the exact nature of the assholery would be decided, illustrated, and amplified by the company. I was very absorbed in their recollections, and I gathered that there are the following types:

Secret Asshole
Funny Asshole
Asshole but he was okay
An Asshole to me
Surprisingly, an Asshole
An Asshole but he came by it honestly
A Certified, Card-Carrying, Dues-Paying American Asshole

I was like, you guys have already named more people who were assholes than all the people I remember from my high school class.

Then we asked the waiter to get the bartender to make a White Russian milkshake, and the waiter was like, that's not on the menu but it sounds like a really good idea. And we were like, go see what you can do. And it was delicious. Unsurprisingly.

I've got to get home because I can't go on eating like this. I haven't even told you about the ham tacos.

Anyway, I hope there was a treat of some kind and/or some useful analysis in your day. xoxo

The Past is Prologue

Hank maintaining a state of readiness.

Tonight at 8pm, Betty loaded the last dishes into the dishwasher as I swept the kitchen. She said, "Well, that's done." I said, "And it only took you all day!" She confirmed that she'd been working in the kitchen since 8am and had only sat down to eat. I slept until ten and had, I will confess, sat periodically throughout the day. But the food was delicious and nicely presented and everyone was happy, and I think, grateful.

Here is the sweet potato and cauliflower au gratin recipe. Although where they say one cup of water and one cup of milk in the sauce, I do two cups of milk. That link goes to the now defunct Whole Living magazine, and they used to try to make everything healthy, so some reverse engineering is required. It was good and it got eaten.

I ate one plateful and had some prosecco and then after dessert, it was like I was struck by lightning. I didn't even think I ate that much, but I had to get horizontal. I went and fell across Betty's bed for an unspecified period of time. Then, because I had read this article yesterday about how a bout of exercise mitigates the effects of overeating and sitting around, Matt and the kids and I went for a brisk walk in the dusk.

As we walked to a nearby playground, I told the kids how, when we were first married, we used to walk along that same street and daydream about having one of the little cottages. We were living in a succession of newlywed apartments in those days, and for us to have a tidy little house together was all I wished for. It's so strange to be taking the same walk with our two huge, very real children. And to realize that those cute bungalows would not fit us these days. Matt remarked how small the houses seem, that he'd never noticed before, and we agreed that we have different eyes now. But how gradual the change! Life, man, the way it just takes you along and over and through things and it just keeps going around and around, and you just never know.

At the park, Matt talked about how much time he'd spent in the field there as a kid, kicking a ball or running around or just doing nothing. Then a barred owl flew over us and sat on a low branch. He looked at us and we looked back. And the sun went down with a bang. Boom, dark.

Then we walked home and settled in for a quiet evening and that's where we are now.

Except now the dog is growling at the cat and Matt is fake cursing at her, like the dad in A Christmas Story.

Good night.

Interstate Cornbread Trafficking

Greetings from Chattanooga! Matt's mom Betty and our kids all went to bed before 8pm. So this crew up here is what I'm working with. Percy the dog is her normal self. There is a cat in this house, and after a few bouts of hysterical barking when we arrived, now when she sees the cat, Percy just looks at us like, "So you guys know this thing is in here with us? And you're okay with this? SMH."

We got out of Atlanta without major delays, but I bet we were among the last people to do so. We left home at 1:30, and as we drove up I-75, I felt like a door was swinging shut behind us. Matt went to the office for a bit this morning while I got us packed up and made cornbread. I'm doing the dressing tomorrow and I thought that was a good make-ahead. I'm also making a sweet potato and cauliflower au gratin dish I've made the last couple of years. Betty has a fried turkey and a honeybaked ham, and another family is bringing desserts. Hank has called dibs on the drumsticks, and I'm fine with that because I only have eyes for ham.

So we got up here in the afternoon and puttered around. We had a chili supper in the TV room. Matt burned his hands on a pan of party mix. Man down! He has a pretty good blister but I think he'll be okay. I helped him put a square of gauze over it, but he said that actually made it hurt more and he wants to leave it uncovered.

I read the December Living magazine with great attention and enjoyment. I don't routinely look at that mag but this is a good issue. Several things I want to cook and make. I don't know of many other magazines that still try to teach. Most of the other mags are more like Country Living, which I enjoy but which is really just trying to get you to feel okay about yourself and your efforts, you know? Put a bird on it! But MS Living and maybe Southern Living are the only ones I can think of that are like, "You are ignorant about maple trees, let us help," or such.

It is cold on Signal Mountain, below freezing, and as we drove up the road, the kids were excited to see long icicles hanging off the bluffs and boulders. I could stay gone for a month, I packed so much. I mean, I only packed the big Vera tote that I bring everywhere, but somehow I am prepared for any eventuality. I have snow boots, I have tennis clothes, I have an eyelash curler, I have apple cider and fresh sage.

What are y'all doing? Sheltering in place? You cooking? Render over the deets. xo

I Could Go On Busting You Up All Night

So last night we get into bed, and Matt is talking about how he's reading one of those Roger Zelazny Amber Chronicles books, and how, as he put it, he really wants to have read it, but he doesn't want to actually do the actual reading of it, because it is tedious. I remarked that I was having the opposite experience with Wolf Hall. I've been reading it forever and I don't want it to be over, or really it's that I don't think about the story in terms of an endpoint, each part is so good. I read each paragraph about two to three times.

I said, "Yeah, that Amber book. I read a page of it while I was in the bathroom, and I thought it might be a joke, it was so bad. So mannered in an icky way."

He said, "Well, yeah, mannered, but there's something about them. I thought they'd be fun to pick back up; I read all eight or nine of the books in the series one time." I went, "When did you do that?" He goes, "Like fifteen years ago."

"No you didn't," I said. He gawped at me. Then he protested.

"Listen, miss! I've read and done lots of things that you may not be aware of," he said.

"Maybe you don't realize how closely I pay attention," I rejoined.

I mean, I don't know why I feel so confident in this area. Maybe it's the same way I can remember what I was wearing at every significant and many insignificant occasions in my life. Or maybe it's that he's my husband and I really do pay attention to everything about him. And my interest in him is not casual. I just know.

"Fine," he said. "I'll name a book and you tell me whether I've read it or not."

"All right, go," I said. He paused, seeming at a loss.

"Okay," I prompted. "First you just have to think of a book that you either have OR have not read."

Then he started laughing and pummeled me with blows. But, you know, lovingly.

"So," he said, "On Stranger Tides."

"You have not."

"Correct." he said. "How about Shogun."

"You have," I said. "This isn't even hard. I could do this forever."

"Okay," he said. "Jonathan Strange and Mr. Norell."

"You did not read that," I said.

"Aha!" he cried, "That's a trick question, because I read half of it!" This pleased him so much he started giggling. If you have never heard Matt giggle, and so few people have, it is really something. I rolled my eyes while he chortled at the notion that he was getting half-credit.

"Okay," he said. "Huckleberry Finn as an adult." I asked what we were calling adulthood, and he said anytime after high school. This was a tough one. I thought. I went into my mind palace and surveyed the landscape. Matt had a pretty serious Mark Twain phase about five years ago. I could remember that Roughing It and Life on the Mississippi figured prominently. He would crank up the audiobooks while he cleaned the kitchen at night, and he would laugh and repeat bits of dialogue.

"You didn't read it," I said.

"I did." he said, so satisfied. "Okay," I said, "You got me on that one. You get ONE."

We called a truce.

But I still think he was confusing it with Puddinhead Wilson. 

File under: Pillowtalk.

It's Come To Color Coding

Two weeks into the future is as far as the human mind can apprehend.

For a long time, I kept our affairs straight using my brain and the little calendar on my iphone. I still use both those things, but now I have these two whiteboard planners that I write on. One for this week and one for next week. Each member of the family has a different colored marker. We're in a pretty light period right now--there's not much ink on this week--but back in September/October, gah. At about 7:05 every morning, I would come stand over the whiteboards, scanning them and then visualizing the rest of the day in my head. In the dawn light, I would root out and resolve instances of magical thinking, impossible geographies, and optimistic double booking. It was cray.

Visualization is the key to success in all our endeavors.

And when I get through the week and we all did our activities and nothing is forgotten, y'all, I feel a sense of satisfaction. Like I've put a puzzle together.

Then, on Sunday night when I wipe the whiteboard for the previous week clean, I record in my paper planner what actually DID happen, i.e., how we deviated from the schedule and what other details I want to include. Things that would actually jog my memory about the actual living of those days.

When I first started this system, one night before I wiped the board off, I carried it to Matt and said, "Before I erase this, I just want you to appreciate it."

I'm crazy, I do know.

But he took it from me and said, "Let me see." Then he made a very good show of studying it, and then he said, "Nicely done. Good job."

Reader, that is all I need to hear. RIGHT?

What is your system? Have you gone to color coding? Do you need an audience for it?

PS: One day Hank wrote one of his appointments on the whiteboard, but he used a sharpie. So, permanent. But I found out you can just write over the sharpie in dry-erase marker, and it renders the sharpie dry-erase. And thus the cause of human knowledge advances.

What I Deal With

This is my text exchange with my husband from this afternoon. What this screenshot doesn't reveal is the large span of time that elapsed between the first four blue messages I sent, time that elapsed with no response even after I said "Please acknowledge," which is as naggy as I get. It also doesn't reveal that I had emailed him MUCH earlier in the day about our plans to transfer Hank from my care to his at Hank's basketball practice. I took his lack of response to that as acquiescence, but then as I headed out on my rounds, I started texting to be sure. But Matt often doesn't have his phone anywhere on his person. Or it's face down on his desk and silenced. Or a condor has secreted it in a high mountain aerie.

So then, after more Matt silence, I did what I sometimes have to do and texted Lincoln, Matt's partner. That's phase 2. Lincoln usually has the eyes-on, and can tell me if Matt is in a meeting or has been hit by a meteor, because those are the only two reasons I can think of for his not spending the one instant it would take to text me one time and thereby stop me from unleashing hell.

Can I get a witness?

Usually Matt makes instant contact with me after I've texted Lincoln. Which is why I do it, even though I'm sure Lincoln just adores being a part of our little tableau.

So after "Please acknowledge," I had a brief exchange with Lincoln and then I got Matt's "I'll be there." Now, the rookie wife would have been more admonitory or expressed her displeasure in some more overt way and it would have turned into a snippy exchange. But I've been to that puppet show and here's what I know. Fussing at Matt for anything never did anybody ANY DAMN GOOD.

Do you know this joke?

A man says to his wife, "Honey, if I were to die, would you ever remarry?" She looks somber, but says, "Well, dear, as unthinkable as that prospect is, yes, I can't think you would want me to live out my life alone." The husband says, "No indeed! Tell me though, do you think you would continue to live in this house together?" The wife thinks. "Yes, I suppose I wouldn't want to leave this place of so many great memories. It's a good house, and we would stay here." The husband nods, "Yes, that makes good sense. And tell me, would you keep my things for your new husband, like, would you give him my golf clubs?" And she goes, "Nah, he's left-handed."

That's what I was referencing in my last message, by way of telling Matt, if I could change one thing about him, this would be it, and I don't want to nag, but I swear to the living God. It seems like a small thing, and it is, and I don't know why it gets all over me, but SWEET MARY DOES IT.

And his "ack" for "acknowledge" is his declining to be admonished, even in jest.

They say--and I believe--that when you marry someone, you are marrying some number of problems that will never go away. You will work around them and through them and build Rube Goldberg-type contraptions to compensate for them, and your patience and ingenuity in building these workarounds together is what gets you down the road. You know what I mean. After some years, you don't have to have the fight anymore. You can just gesture to the file folder where the fight is stored. You get me?

And then I think of the whole package that is that guy, and how my relationship with him is my experience of grace on this earth.

And then I'm like OH WHATEVER COME HERE YOU.

I Just Like What I Like

Bird by bird.

Today I put away my Halloween decorations. I know. They weren't still, like, on display, but they were heaped in my dining room, the spider lights, the skull pillow, the feather wreath, the little witches, Lord, I don't know what all. And my terra cotta jack o' lantern was still sitting in the middle of the table. So I moved all that back to the basement.

Do you remember when I made that runner out of tea towels? That was a weird time for me. Anyway, I pulled that out and put it on the table, because I hadn't seen that in a while, then I put my Red Wing Bobwhite birds on there. The little ones are S&P shakers, of course, but do you know what that big one is? It's an hors d'oeuvre holder. Or that's that they used to call it. It is pierced all over its back with little holes that you stick toothpicks in. What would you serve on those toothpicks? I guess like cheese and olives? Adorable!

Speaking of my weird knick knacks, my mom reminded me of how I found that stuffed swan at a flea market last year. It is almost time to bring that baby out again. But I was trying to carve out a little space for general autumnal decorating, distinct from Halloween and Christmas. So, bobwhites. I have a whole set of those dishes--I think I have service for ten--that I collected off ebay several years ago. All of that old Red Wing stuff is cool and it's not very expensive. Or it wasn't then.

That is all. Did you have a good day? We didn't do much. We did play tennis with the neighbors though, and on the way home, Matt goes, "Okay, tomorrow I'm going to do even MORE nothing."

It was too much something.

Or something. Goodnight! I think we are going to watch a movie.
xo

Never Enough Time To Do All The Nothing You Want

No post without a picture. So, Percy.

This morning I asked Matt, "This weekend, what do you not want to do?" He said, "There is so much I don't want to do. Everything, actually."  So we have no real plans.

We're a family who needs regular downtime.

There was a fair amount of downtime for me today. In fact, one reason I started blogging again was because of days like this, days where nothing big happens and I know that in three weeks I will not remember it at all, and it's one more day of my precious life gone. Cheery, right? Teach me to know my days are numbered and all. That's what I'm trying for.

This morning I got up at 7:00 and got Hank up. That's too late for the bus but in plenty of time to drive him to school, which I did. But when I got there the car line was so long that I parked and circumvented the line by walking him to the door, walked him to the door wearing my literal pajama pants. I am not abashed.

Then I returned home where Laura had arisen and gotten dressed and was working on a model of a cell wall for science. The last I'd heard, this was going to involve shaving cream or something, but then I turned my back for five minutes and during that time she found an old Whitman's sampler box, punched holes in the sides to represent the plasmodesmata, put a piece of craft foam on the bottom, lined the perimeter with cotton balls, and then filled the box with a half inch of shampoo. Cytoplasm? Fruity, delicious-smelling cytoplasm. I pulled off the lid and was like, whoa...hmmm...okay, done!

I was troubled by the fact that the cell was rectangular and not some more organic shape, and she was all, "Mom, it's just like a schematic." And then she pointed to the holes in the side of the candy box and talked about ion transfer, and I was all, okay Marie Curie.

Later I told Matt that she had filled a cardboard box with shampoo, and he allowed as how that sounded like an absolutely terrible idea.

This all took until about 8:15.

Then I remembered that it is Staff Appreciation Day and I owed a cafeteria worker breakfast at 9:00. The room mom had sent me her breakfast order: Chicken biscuit and tea. I texted the room mom and said, "I'm gonna assume this is sweet tea," and she was like, "Uh, YEAH." 

So I got back in the car and went to Chick-fil-A for chicken biscuits and tea. Then I drove back to the school, this time wearing legit pants. Right in the foyer, they had a drop station set up to receive all the incoming meals, and I stayed to see the breakfast labeled with my lunchlady's name and then I was off again.

By now it was raining lightly and I texted my tennis friend. We agreed to push our singles match back a bit in hopes that it would dry up. Fabienne was coming to clean, so I decided to go home and clear away some clutter. I ran around like a dervish and put sheets out, etc. When she came in, I greeted her, but I don't really like to hang around while she works. I think everyone basically feels that way? Usually I either have something to do at the elementary school and then have lunch out, or I have tennis and then lunch out, and by the time I've done all that she's finished and gone.

So I cleared out of there again and my friend and I met at the tennis court. We played exactly one game--I'm talking maybe two minutes of tennis, and it started to rain in earnest. We surrendered and climbed back in our cars.

Let the record show that I won that one game.

I went to TJ Maxx and returned a pair of pants for Hank. I did not buy anything else, so that was a revenue-neutral situation. I tried on a few dresses though, and fingered lots of the merch, but I was kind of over all of it. It's good to go and remind myself of all the stuff I don't need though.

Then I went to Panera and sat by their little gas fireplace and ate lunch by myself. Matt is my preferred lunch partner, but he was busy today--his exact words were, "I have to get some work done before the company goes to play whirlyball," so I was on my own. Panera is the kind of place where you're quite comfortable being by yourself, so I eavesdropped a lot and I read Wolf Hall.

It's a lot better now, but I remember that Panera during the worst of the recession was a anxious place. Lots of tense, hopeful little meetings and interviews going on at all those little tables. Anyway.

Then I went to the store and bought apples. Then it was time to meet Hank's bus. Fabienne had gone, leaving a clean house, or, you know, clean enough. Hank brought his buddy home and they jumped on the wet leafy trampoline and whacked each other with nerf swords at the same time. When they wanted to come inside, I made them stand on a beach towel while I removed the leaf litter from their clothing.

There was a letter in Hank's folder that informed me he's going to be given a thirty-minute "creativity test" next week. I pondered that in my heart. I really have no idea what that would look like at all.

Then Laura came home, and her afternoon tennis was also rained out, so we found ourselves with hours of afternoon at home, and that almost never happens. Laura told me her box of shampoo went over just fine, and that there is a new girl in school and she's the prettiest girl she's ever seen and they are already friends. Then I made some beans and rice with andouille sausage and we piddled around. Then Matt came home. The End.

It's just a blog about nothing.

Thank you for reading; I hope your eyeballs still point the right way. xoxo

It's Gonna Take Me A While To Get Over That One

Baby Nolan wouldn't have choked in the big points, no.

Tonight Matt and I had a mixed doubles playoff match for the flex league we're in. We've been playing well and advancing through the bracket, and this was the semis. Next Saturday would have been City Finals. If you win that, you get the coveted crystal tennis ball. I want that crystal tennis ball.

But it was not to be. We lost in a third set tiebreak, 6-8. That's about as close as it can get. And yes we played a good match. Matt played the best he's ever played. But I didn't. There were a couple of times that I had the match on my racquet, and I screwed it up. I feel like when I close my eyes to go to sleep tonight, I'll see myself hitting a volley into the net. I am pouting and trying to wring some sympathy out of Matt, but he is like, "We played well, so did they, could have gone either way, are we still talking about this?"

That guy.

Our opponents were this hot Israeli couple. They were definitely worthy foes. But still. I think I hate losing even more than I love winning. Is that normal?

I might try to recruit them for our winter mixed team.

I don't know when we'll get this far in playoffs again, because next season we'll move up a level and probably get our asses kicked a lot. That crystal tennis ball is receding into the future like Gatsby's green light.

One thing might make me feel better and that's to go sit on the couch and watch Homeland. Even if that show is just a shadow of its former self. I mean, if I am asked to care about Dana Brody one more minute, I don't know.

Share with me the triumphs and/or defeats in your day.

Love all,
B

Muddy Buddies

Last Friday night we spent the night in Athens, GA. We got up Saturday morning, drove to the middle of nowhere, turned left, and at length, arrived at the Tough Mudder racecourse. This was an eleven or twelve-mile run with 21 obstacles, most of them involving feats of strength or the willingness to get completely filthy. There were, like, at least a thousand people with this willingness.

Matt and his gang had trained, prepared, and purchased performance fabrics. They gathered as a group, listened to pep talks, and had to climb over a wall to even begin the race. As they ran away from the start, I was giddy with pleasure at not having to do it myself. But then it started to look like they were really having fun.

Splash.

Just dudes in mud.

Then, after Matt and his friends were all wet and slicked in mud, it was kind of, um, hot, and I realized the full eye-candy potential of this whole scene.

Ceremonial finish-line sweatbanding.

Then they got handed beer.

Then shower time.

Matt and his friends made it through in good style. He felt like his training had been good, he had something left in the tank, and nothing hurt too bad. Nobody liked the electric shocks though.

If I'd been thinking that the race looked really fun, the electrical component was a deal breaker for me.

Hank loved the whole scene.

Muddy family.

And somehow I was really tired after all of this, even though I didn't do anything. I did step in an ant bed though. My struggles! And then we set out for a night at the beach and Hank threw up all over the inside of the car as we passed through Statesboro but it all turned out okay.

If you are into it, there are more mud pics here. 

And then yesterday, my brother-in-law Jason did this down in Sydney. Only it is autumn there. Crazy! These boys and their games.

Weekendly

EB hid all the eggs in the backyard. I don't know why that chair is there.

My sister has a LOT OF NERVE. On my SubMat facebook page (you click that little fb logo up there on the left and "like" my page and then you don't miss a minute of her 'tude), she's all, "Um, blogging 'every day in March.'" This from someone who hasn't blogged in a coon's age. And I was like, March is a long month, gah, and then my Dad helpfully pointed out that there's a difference between metric March and Imperial March. Or something to do with the switch to the Gregorian calendar?

Anyway, I think I liked having my previous post at the top of the page for a couple of days. And we had kind of a whirlwind weekend here so far.

We celebrated Easter with the kids on Saturday morning, because Laura has since headed to the beach with her friend's family for Spring Break and wouldn't be home on Sunday morning. Matt the Easter Bunny hid two dozen eggs out in our backyard, which is a lot of ground to cover and a lot of different terrain. Before long, the kids needed hints. He requested a garbage bag, I brought it to him, and he told the kids that for every few pieces of litter or broken plastic crap they gathered, they would get a hint to an egg location. So they were out there picking up trash and finding eggs at the same time. Truly, he is the Master of Revels. Also, his hints rhymed:

"If not at first an egg you see, get thyself to the crook of a tree."

"If eggs you seek, follow this command: look deeper down into the sand."

There were a bunch of these, each more poetical than the last. I sat on the porch drinking coffee and cracking up, proud to have helped him pass his genetic material into the next generation of humans.

I spent the rest of the day helping Laura get ready to go, with a few bumps in the road. She had recovered from her virus and went to school on Friday, and was feeling fine, but then Saturday afternoon, she went for a run with Matt, and came home complaining that her ear hurt. I was all, damnation. I didn't want to send her off with another family for a week if there was a chance her viral head cold had turned into an ear something. So we headed to the clinic at the CVS. That place looked like an extras casting call for "Walking Dead." There were about six people ahead of us and the nurse was at lunch.

I thought, "To heck with this, I'm calling my neighbor." One of Hank's little buddy's mothers is a pediatrician. They live around the corner from us, I see her almost every day, and I have never never sought her medical opinion or asked for a bus stop consulation. I don't know, I just feel like it's an imposition? Though she has never said anything that would give that impression. But I texted her and asked her if she would look in Laura's ear, and she came right away.

She couldn't get her little ear flashlight to work, but she said the easiest thing, given that Laura was going out of town, was to prescribe an antibiotic and call it a day, so she phoned the pharmacy from my kitchen and we were all good. Normally I would have just kept a watch on her and not gone for the ab's, but Laura was nearly in tears because she thought her trip was imperiled. And I didn't think it was an ear infection, I thought it was exercise-induced ear pressure. But I am not that kind of doctor. Anyway, my neighbor told me several times that she was really glad I'd asked her, and I thought, well maybe she became a pediatrician because she wants to help children, even if they just live around the corner. And her husband is a plastic surgeon, so between them, we're covered.

Later, to Matt, I was like, "That was so convenient!" And he was like, "Having the doctor come to your house? Yes."

As Laura gathered her things together to get out the door, her ear pain lessened and lessened until it seemed she'd made a full recovery. I think my ear-pressure diagnosis was correct. Humanities PhD power! So I delivered her into the care of the other family. Matt and I feel comfortable with her instincts and judgment, as well as with that family, so I'm thinking she'll have a wonderful week. My biggest fear is drowning, and I told her not to go past her knees in the Gulf, which she won't because she thinks there are a lot more sharks than there really are.

Then Matt and I, the carefree parents of one child, threw all our stuff together and headed up to the mountain house, late. Hank fell asleep immediately, and we rode along companionably. One fun topic for musing was, if our family life were a sitcom, who and what would be the best potential spinoffs? Like Archie Bunker spun off the Jeffersons, who were the Bunkers' neighbors. Following that template, we thought the telegenic black family around the corner (my friendly kitchen pediatrician!) would make good viewing. And we conceived of a hipster office comedy involving Matt's twenty-something employees.

I guess the two of us have already talked about all the important things.

Now I'm just telling you everything that happened to me since we last spoke. Sorry.

I hope you have had a wonderful weekend. xoxo

These Boys

These boys who live in this house, I mean. They keep my attention from actual dawn until I lay down my head at night.

In two weeks, Matt is doing that Tough Mudder race. Have you heard of this? They have them all over; it's basically a twelve-mile obstacle course that combines trail running with various feats of physical endurance. I think there's, like, climbing over walls and shinnying through a corrugated pipe filled with muddy water. Also there are live electrical wires you have to dart around? And maybe fire? It sounds made up but I think it's real.

Anyway, a bunch of guys from his company are doing it as a team. And one guy's wife. We were at the company Christmas party when I first heard this discussed, and a few people were like, "Come on Becky! You should do it! Jen is doing it!" And they started to make those noises like they were going to cajole me into it. And Matt was like, "Don't even. She's impervious to pressure, y'all." I mean, there was no way. I don't like to run and I don't like elective dirtiness and I feel zero compulsion to be one of the boys.

So there's no way I would have signed up for that, but I am an enthusiastic supporter of the effort as it is undertaken by others. They have been training for it quite diligently. Just now as I was climbing into bed, Matt was down on the floor doing his last set of push ups. Which inspired me to drop and do the ten push ups I can do. Or, I mean, I might be able to do more than ten, who knows. It's like the question of how high can a kangaroo jump? Nobody knows, because nobody has ever known how to really motivate a kangaroo.

So he has been training, but I think he is now in the phase of training where you doubt your training and whether it has prepared you. I don't know, he's tough, and as I said to him, you can do anything for three hours. Hee! I think that whatever happens, it will be a good story for him to tell. Hank is quite interested in this whole thing, and we'll be there to watch and cheer.

Speaking of Hank, I'll leave you with one other moment from my day. He and I went into Target to buy dog food. As we wheeled the cart down the aisle, he said, "Mom, what kind of car do we have?" I answered that we have a Kia minivan. He asked why we got that kind of car, and I answered, distractedly, that we had wanted a minivan and that was a nice one.

"Okay," he said. "Well, I would have appreciated a Cadillac."

Indeed.

"Oh, for sure, me too," I said. I winked at the woman down the aisle who had whipped her head around to see who this little bon viveur was.

Taking this child anywhere usually involves some amount of winking at strangers. Sometimes shrugging.

Then we went to Mother-Son bowling with his school. I played Laser Tag, y'all. I may have gotten really into it.

xoxo

This Lady, I Swear

If my blog were a book--I mean, if it were a novel composed by me, not if I turned my blog into a nonfiction book--there would be people I just couldn't put into the story, because the sketch of them would be too broad, not subtle enough; they wouldn't make good fictional characters because some of their character traits are too obviously ridiculous. Like, you wouldn't write a novel in which an evil villain twirled his mustache.

Take my neighbor (please)! I've mentioned her before? I think? I don't have a blog epithet for her, yet. She's one who wouldn't speak to me at the pool the whole summer I was bald from chemo, even if she'd been standing three feet away from me, but then would say to Pretty Neighbor, "I saw Becky the other day but didn't get to say hi."

But whatever, people deal with illness in different ways, and sometimes not well. My leading with that tidbit makes it sound like I harbor some bitterness towards her, but I truly don't. I never cared for her. She will talk the legs right off a donkey, but it's all about her and her things and her kids, she really doesn't want to hear about anything else. She's oblivious to social cues. She's loud. And calling her boring is a disservice to things that are just honestly boring. No shame in being boring.

Once she had Pretty Neighbor hostage, talking to her in the driveway, and PN slowly worked her way into her car to leave, murmuring her goodbyes all the while, but Gift of Gab wasn't finished with her and put her hand on the hood of PN's car to keep her in place so she could finish sucking what was left of her soul away.

It goes without saying that whatever your kids are doing, her kids are doing it just a little bit better? And ahead of developmental schedule? Or just a hair more wonderfully than your kids. You've just got to hear how baby Fletcher did at swim lessons, the teacher said she'd never seen a baby put its face in the water so quickly and willingly!

Naturally social media makes all this into an absolute nonstop farce. My own social media history with her is that I friended her, reluctantly, at her request, only to unfriend her when she posted some thing about how Obama had a bunch of relatives in this country illegally, whatever, and then she sent me another friend request, who does that? I accepted and put her on some status like, "Only show me this person's updates never," or something, but still they come through. And part of me would miss the entertainment.

She's very active on a facebook page for fanciers of tiny, ornamental dogs.

You see? You would never make this person up.

She is fond of using facebook to "check in" everywhere. Like, I kid you not, her couch or her bed. Because that's clever, huh huh huh ha ha....I'm dead.

But her favorite places to check in are 1) Church, every Sunday that she attends, so she'll receive full credit; and 2) Restaurants, where she eats every meal. One day recently, she ate four meals out. Her friends comment on her status, "Do you ever cook?" It's a culinary Grand Tour of Taco Mac, Dunkin Donuts, and frozen yogurt places.

And the irony is that she is a sales rep for one of those cookware/bakeware companies where the stuff is sold at parties.

Anyway, I can't even remember all the things that have made me go, "Oh my GOOD GOD," and roll my eyes back into my head while simultaneously texting Pretty Neighbor at the speed of light, but tonight the thing that set me off was her announcement that her middle schooler brought home her report card, having received straight 'A's for the third quarter in a row.

We were at that moment marveling at how Hank, on his report card today, earned a 2 out of a possible 4 in "Conventions of Standard English." Proud!

I was venting to Matt about the insufferable and gassy puffery of this person and how one time she said something like, "So glad my family is up early serving the Lord" or some such. I mean honestly.

Matt goes, "Well honey, you are blessed with the talent of being able to toot that horn more subtly."

Hmmmph! I say again, hmmmph!

I Hope It Wasn't Nutkin

Last Tuesday the Wildlife Exclusion Specialist came from the exterminator and set about addressing our roof rat scourge. Go back and read up on it if you missed any of the skittering creature sounds and the marital intrigue that naturally resulted. The Wildlife Exclusion Specialist was a very tall, broad man named Mark. Mark looked like he knew a lot about hard work. But still he was only one guy. I had been kind of expecting a small squadron, each with a different job function. Maybe one would be the communications guy, one the brains, and one the grease man, okay this is starting to sound like Ocean's Eleven, I don't know.

But I said, "Are you going to do it all yourself, Mark?"

"Aw Ma'am," he said (I SWEAR), "There really ain't nothin' to it."

Well, okay, but I am paying a lot of money for this service, I want to feel that it's fiendishly complicated, you know? A little too perilous? But Mark wasn't the sales arm of the Wildlife Exclusion biz, he was the doer of the thing. And it actually did look pretty perilous once he had to take that ladder all around the outside of the house.

"How about this wind?" I said.

"It's blowin'," he said.

So Mark sealed up the roof line and then went up in the attic with baited traps. All this took about four hours. Then he came to me with a printed schedule of when the traps would be checked. I said, "Will you be coming back, Mark?" And he said no, that it would be a different person, which was a shame, because I had enjoyed our talks, and he seemed really very capable. But away he went.

That night it seemed like I could hear even more skittering, I supposed because the creatures weren't able to get out for their nightly forage? Matt observed, helpfully, that we had chosen the course of action that closed the rats in with us. It was not a soothing thought. As I sat in the evening, and as I lay down that night, I was half listening for the sound of a trap slamming shut.

I began to consider different nightmare scenarios. One was: the traps quickly became full, the other rats couldn't get out, and so chewed their way down into our living space. I wanted to call Mark or somebody to come check the traps the very next day. But I refrained. I looked at their printed schedule and noted their five to six-day intervals, and I thought, maybe they know what they're doing. So I waited.

I heard a few little skitters for a couple of days. Then it got quiet, then we left for the mountains.

And while we were in the mountains, I considered another doomsday scenario and grew fearful: The rats are up there in the attic, sealed in. Some of their number are dead in the traps. There is no food. The house is quiet, and sensing that its inhabitants have abandoned it, the stronger rats chew their way into our living space and basically live it up all weekend. Sunday night, we walk through the front door with our bags to see them lounging on the sofa, reading the new Vanity Fair and eating the little bags of chips that are only supposed to be for school lunches.

I am not lying when I tell you that I entered my kitchen last night with a slight but real feeling of trepidation. But no gnawed apples in the bowl, no tiny rat cigarette butts anywhere. Also no smell of decomposing rat. Just our calm house. Phew.

And this morning, as per the schedule, a young man came to check the traps. His name was Troy, and he was somewhere earlier on the path to becoming a fully-fledged Wildlife Exclusion Guy like Mark. So he went up in the attic and was there a long time. I posted on facebook about it. I sipped my coffee. I waited for news from the front.

Troy reappeared with a white garbage bag that had something in it. EW! He took it straight out to the truck, then came back and told me that the traps had caught three flying squirrels.

Flying effing squirrels?!?

Where are the horrifying rats? "I was told there'd be rats," I said, or words to that effect. "Well, if they're in there, we'll get 'em," Troy said. Then he told me that one other trap had been tripped, but the critter had gotten the bait and got away. So awesome, there is a super-smart, canny King of Rats up there, waiting for us to exhaust our pitiful tactics so he can launch Phase 2 of his rat plan.

Matt came home tonight and sat down to dinner with me. "So as I understand," he began, "we paid over a thousand dollars to murder three squirrels?"

"Murder seems like a strong word," I replied. "More lentils, dear?" Then I told him how Troy had said to me that squirrels were really just cuter rats but equally pestilential. And then I realized that I couldn't say the word "rat" even one more time. And we enjoyed our supper in silence.

I told you I'd keep you posted and now I sure the heck have.

I Would Have Done Such Wonderful Things

Such wonderful things with that golden hour that was taken from us today. I know that complaining about something to do with clocks is zzzzz but there it is. I kind of lost the hour in which I was going to blog a real post.

What I did instead of blog with the limited time available to me today:

Woke up late, still at the mountain house. Farewelled Matt's departing family.

Had some coffee and ate supper leftovers for brunch. Didn't want to take a lot of food home.

Started reading Death Comes to Pemberley by PD James. If you are an Austen fan, you would really like it. Usually when someone attempts to imitate Austen's style and tone, it makes me feel a deep, deep sadness. But not in this case.

Texted with four people to find out what was going on, in real time, with our Sunday team's tennis match today. The news was mixed.

Played a board game that Laura had spent the morning making. It involved buying lottery tickets to get ahead and win. Hmm.

Stripped/made a bed. Policed our area and gathered our belongings. Cleaned the kitchen. Directed children through the sub-par performance of cleaning jobs. While Laura was on her knees cleaning something off the kitchen floor, she said, "I feel like Cinderella!" Matt said, "Only the Cinderella who always gets to go to the ball? And doesn't ever work?" I chimed in that there was a name for that Cinderella--it's the evil stepsisters. Laura harrumphed.

Then I gave Hank some glass cleaner and some paper towels, and honestly, watching a young child attempt to clean a pane of glass effectively...it is just something. Something character-building. I showed him how to do it better and then we did it together and a lot of paper towels died in the process.

Read some more while Matt and the kids had one last hot tub.

More light reading.

Shut down the mountain house and locked the door behind us. It is always strange to me to think of it sitting there, cooling down, empty and waiting, the rays of sun traveling across the rooms day after day and nobody there. Except the ladybugs, who are wintering in the corners.

Sat in the passenger seat and provided color commentary on all of life while Matt drove us home to Atlanta.

Played a little Rock Band 3 with the family. Found that child bedtime came quickly, more quickly than the kids felt was just. Matt announced, like the closing-time bartender, "You don't have to go to sleep but you can't stay here."

Watched an episode of Game of Thrones with Matt. Watched the very first episode again because now we know who the heck everyone is.

Sat in bed and instead of blogging, let Matt show me some of the new parts of his game, Dungeon Blitz. It's looking great.

Wrote this post.

Tomorrow morning's wakeup is gonna be tough. xoxo

Of Buckets

We are in the mountains this weekend with Matt's mom and brother. It was a very quiet day today. Highlights were: Staying in bed until 11am while Betty tended our children, playing boardgames, inspecting a mudslide that has buried one of the mountain roads, and washing rich brown mud off of two dogs.

Mudslide or landslide? I don't know the difference.

Hank can somehow read now and that has expanded his game access.

During an afternoon hot tub with the kids, they asked Matt to give them riddles and puzzles. This is one of their favorite things. He came up with a set of questions that everyone had fun with, and I thought you might like to use them with your littler people.

He started by telling the kids that they had two buckets, a five-gallon and a three-gallon, and they were standing on the shore of a lake with unlimited access to water. They must come up with exactly two gallons. How to do it?

After some cogitation and false starts--Laura wanted to just eyeball the amounts of water in the buckets, Hank wanted to go get two gallons of milk and compare--even Hank realized that five minus three is two, and that you fill the five-gallon, pour as much as will go into the three-gallon, and you are left with a certain two-gallons of water.

One of the ground rules was that Hank was allowed to guess and think aloud, but Laura couldn't speak up until she was exactly sure of the correct answer. When she broke this rule, Matt ordered her to get out of the hot tub and run a lap around the house. Hank was then like, "Can I run a lap?" and wanted to use the physical challenge as an escape from thinking about the problems. Eventually we let him run a lap too, because why would I prevent a child from running around outside in a wet bathing suit on a winter day?

With that basic bucket puzzle theme established, with the five and the three-gallon buckets, Matt built up to asking them how to get one gallon, how to get seven gallons, etc.

I admit the seven gallons stumped me for a second. I have no ego in this area and I don't mind saying.

Play around with it, it's fun!

After the kids got out and went inside, we were like, "Yeah, those two are bright enough but I don't think they're exactly geniuses." I just have to trust that with their other strengths, they'll make their way in the world somehow.

That's the scene here today. What are y'all up to?
xoxo   

That's My Racquet

Tonight, at the end of all our activities, I sat down on the couch and announced, to the heavens, that my cold is terrible, terrible, ugh, snuffle! And Matt studied me and said, "Yes, you're so ill that you were only able to play tennis for hours today."

True. But, as I said to him, exercise is good for a cold. Studies show this. So he suggested that if it gets really bad, I might go for a run. Hmmph.

Here on the brink of spring, Thursday has yet again become Tennis Day. Thursday morning is match day for our Thursday team--the one I'm co-captain of--which usually occupies me from nine until after noon. Today we kicked off our season, playing our Easter week match early.

At four, I'm back up at the courts for Hank's lesson. Then I drive all over the place and drop Laura at swimming, take Hank home, try to feed everyone, etc.

At seven, we have an hour-and-a-half practice for our Sunday team. The coach fires balls at you like a machine and talks non-stop. "Becky, I'm not gonna lie to you, that was your ball. You gotta go get that ball. We see the ball and we go get the ball." Imagine this spoken in the style of an auctioneer.

So by the end of the day on Thursday, I'm tired.

I have a post brewing about the politics of our tennis team(s), but that sounds, um, kind of hard right now? I'll save it for when I'm more alert. But suffice it for now to say, you would not believe the number of different conversations that have to take place in order to generate the weekly lineup, that is, who is playing and in what order. Getting advice, building consensus, consulting stakeholders, getting buy-in. You would not believe. I mean, I really like to talk and even I am like oh come on. 

My co-captain is confusing interpersonal busy-work with due diligence, and I may have to wrest control soon.

More anon, friends.