Say What?
My morning started with a Bengay rub on my neck. I’m still convinced I have extra vertebrae in there. Not so conducive to varying life events, including dance parties where Puck insists on sliding across the floor, dragging me with him. I figure that’s partly to blame somehow.
Bird feeder refilled for the greedy pack of squirrels; why do I encourage that? Lucy Maud Montgomery at the library. Five new Old Navy bouncy balls. One package mailed to Addis Ababa through Lawrenceville, Georgia. Pretzel roll sandwich at the gas station while the Mazda lunched up. Chutes and Ladders for the boys at the Silverspoon’s. High winds, banshees racing around the house. Roasted chicken and sweet potatoes. Puck crunched some jicama, counted stacks of pink-sided quarters for more bouncy balls in future. Temperance. Carrie-Bri and Irish drove over for awhile; Gloria needed a nail fix; Irish wanted to drive: sixteen-point-three year-old waiting on a license. She boasted about the twenty-dollar David Freese jersey she picked up at the mall Friday night. Then we watched more stupid baseball clips and interviews to ease the wait.
It was our first date since August 30th. I think. This meant Puck was having his very first spend-the-night at Rose’s. He was feeling very important about that. “I’m going to spend the night in my sleeping bag. That’s for sure.”
He marched right up to the third story, not waiting for his mama, green alligator sleeping bag in arm where Rose already had plans for Dogtown “Bacon Bacon” pizzas and Xbox. As we drove off, Puck left happily on the fine black linen couch with game controller, four deer grazed in the nearby meadow.
So, Grand: The Vine: 100% Halal. I think when we walked into the cracker box of a Mediterranean restaurant purged of all early 20th century senses by Lebanese spices, that I was the one person in the room with hair as light as the dishes of hummus being whisked out to the tables, and the only woman not wearing a hijab. Languages fluttered: Arabic, Hindi. Refrigerated cases of lemons, enormous carrots, and cans of Coca-Cola. We ordered beef shawarmas in various forms. By the time we left, the clientele had gravitated closer to Germanic-American, or whatever the majority of people look like in the suburbs, actually. Dessert was chocolate gelato down the street, and hot chocolate for El Oso. Checked out a beautiful old brick house near the Botanical Gardens that Chet Danger was signing the papers for at the bank after seven. And directed ourselves back to home.
It’s about this time of year I’d be just happy watching post-season reruns. Maybe if I was a bachelor this would be acceptable. But comedy works just as well to round out a winter date. And the husband is also happy.